


(Only) The Gods Can Dwell Forever

by Nisaki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sam, Canon Divergence- post ep 22 of s10, Car Sex, Colette! Sam, Dark!Dean, Established Relationship, M/M, MOC Dean, Mark of Cain, Rough Sex, Sumerian Mythology - Freeform, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform, mention of historical characters, mention of weecest (no underage), re-establishing relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-23 10:57:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11401110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisaki/pseuds/Nisaki
Summary: In his desperation to save his brother from The Mark of Cain, Sam makes a pact with Ishtar, the Sumerian goddess of love. The story follows Sam as he struggles to finish his quest, and comes to terms with his relationship with Dean. Only to discover that the solution has been with him all along.





	(Only) The Gods Can Dwell Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and acknowledgements: My amazing beta and cheerleader, [efflorescentjared](http://efflorescentjared.tumblr.com/) not only you turned this story into something readable but you encouraged me to write it, this story wouldn't have been written without you.  
> Thanks to Wendy for running this challenge , I had fun.  
> And of course the wonderful art from Blackrabbit24 who was awesome, and even helped me fill some plot holes, I gained a new friend and I'm very grateful. [HERE](http://blackrabbit42.livejournal.com/70322.html) give her love!
> 
> BEFORE YOU READ THE STORY: This is set in canon, following the scene right after Dean tries to kill Castiel near the end of season 10, it takes off and ignores everything else.  
> This story contains a great amount of Sumerian legends. I, of course, took some liberties with the original stories to fit the plot, but for those of you who are interested, I'm going to add the real stories in the end notes. 
> 
> The story's name is half a verse form The Epic of Gilgamesh. 
> 
> Please leave feedback!!

 

 

_''Sam? Sam.''_

_Someone is calling for him, and he knows that voice. Feminine, sweet and calm. Someone who was there to help him. Sam tries to answer, but his chest is aching something fierce and he can't find his own voice._

_''Sam, open your eyes. Dean is coming to get you.”_

_Dean..._

_No, it can't be. Dean is dead. He's dead._

_The pain in his heart throbs, sending the hurt through his whole body, everything just_ hurts _, it hurts, it hurts._

_Dean is dead._

_'Sam, Sam? Open your eyes. Dean is coming to get you.''_

 

 

He wakes up with a jolt, instantly sitting in his bed; he doesn't remember his dream _(nightmare)._ He's shaking; every muscle in his body is made of lead as he tries to turn his head. He looks down at his hands in his lap, there's a feeling of wetness on them and he turns his right hand up, staring at his palm like he's never seen it before. It's with a sense of surprise that he realizes the glistening drops falling on his palm are tears.

He feels like he's floating, watching himself shake and cry on his bed from outside his body. It takes a while ‘till he finally gets his breathing to calm down and convinces himself that he doesn't need to go to Dean's room with tears in his eyes.

He doesn't sleep at all that night.

It's been over fifty hours since he's last gotten any sleep, and dreams of a restful night are only that: dreams.

He tells himself it's not a big deal, not the first time he went long without sleep, knows his body won't listen to him and soon he'd have to close his eyes and submit to a nightmares filled slumber. Right now, though, he doesn't want to think about it. He's quite enjoying the babble of sweet denial he surrounded himself with, not yet ready to face the very real, terrifying possibility of Dean completely losing it and going full on nuclear, again.

He walks around the kitchen like it's any other morning, like the past eleven times or so he made coffee wasn't all in the same thirty hours. Like Dean will just enter the kitchen, take up the space and demand his share of caffeine. And here's another thing he's been trying to ignore: Dean hasn't come out of his room since he last lost control and tried to kill Cas.

 

_The bunker was stinking of gasoline and blood when Sam entered, empty shelves and mountains of books ready to be burned. On the ground was Dean, pointing an angel blade right to their friend's heart. Cas, bloody and broken, and Dean would've done it had Sam not screamed._

_''Dean! Stop!''_  

_It was like the spell holding his brother was lifted, and he was the most shocked one out of the three of them. Looking at Castiel and the blade in his hand, eyes widening with horror at what could've been._

_He got up, glanced around and, if possible, his face blanched even more as he took in the kid's body, lying lifeless on the wooden floor. He made it to his room with wide strides and shaky legs, locked the door and didn't answer._

_Castiel was nothing but sympathetic; he squeezed Sam's shoulder, offering as much comfort as he could with the gesture, said he'd try to find Rowena and take the book back. Sam foolishly thought that Dean would come out of his hiding soon and he'd be able to apologize again about Charlie. Or beg Dean not to leave him, or sweep everything under the rug and suffer in silence. Whatever it took. In the time before he decided to retire, he managed to clean the kitchen and his room, and was resolved to put the books back once they're dry. He did restore order in the bunker, but Dean didn't get out._

 

And now two days later, fifty-one hours to be exact, Dean still doesn't answer Sam's pleas to get out or eat.

Sam sighs, lets his shoulders slump, lets himself be pathetic and lean on the counter. No one is there to see him.  The bunker is spotless and he has nothing to fill his time with anymore. He's so close to breaking down he feels it under his skin, it's just _there_ . He fills two cups of coffee, pretends that this morning Dean would open the door and thank him for the breakfast with a mocking hand on the center of his chest and gleaming eyes. _Marry me, Sammy!_ He'd say, and he would take the tray and Sam would mutter _Shut up_ and they'd both ignore his blush.

It doesn't happen of course, and just like yesterday, and the day before, Sam sits in front of Dean's door for two hours. Back against the wall, and the cold food by his feet. He ignores the fact that they both hadn't eaten a thing, and decides to start lunch. Maybe this meal would be the one to break their self imposed two days of hunger.

He holds the tray and hoists himself up, moves to walk but the ground trembles underneath his feet and the hallway spins. He hears the sound of glass breaking, the last thing he feels before he succumbs into darkness is warm hands on his hair.

 

_''Sam? Sam. Open. your eyes, Dean is coming to get you,''_

_The voice is comforting but the words are lies, because he knows his brother is dead._

_''Sam! Sam!''_

''Sammy? Wake up buddy, it's only a dream'' Dean.

He wakes up quickly, afraid that Dean is a part of his fading dream too, but he isn't. His brother is there, solid and real, sitting beside him on his bed trying to calm him down. Dean's face is contracted in worry, his lips opening and closing around words Sam fails to comprehend. Like the world is a mute black and white movie. Dean's thumbs are gentle as they wipe his tears. Sam gasps and the world comes back, colours and voices rushing to greet him and he's dizzy with it. He throws himself at Dean and his brother's arms are there to catch him, steel muscles covered with rough skin, holding Sam together as he falls apart and cries. He doesn't even know why he's so shaken up, his heart is pumping fear instead of blood and he clings to Dean tighter. He can't breathe.

''Sam, for God's sake,'' And oh _God ._  It's Dean's voice. Warm and concerned, he's finally able to hear it.

''Dean, Dean.'' He repeats the name like a mantra, doesn't find it in him to feel shame at his own behavior, can't pull back from where he is, wouldn't let go of Dean. He's so scared. So scared and he doesn't remember what he's dreamt about.

He stills, allows his body to go lax, depending completely on Dean to hold his weight. He doesn't move and he's not clinging to his brother's neck anymore, just simply leaning against him. Dean's hold never loosens, he doesn't speak, doesn't move, just sits there, holding Sam. Sam's mind goes hazy, and he's eternally thankful for Dean's silent support, for his firm, protective embrace.

''What happened?'' He croaks into Dean's chest, regretting his decision to speak when Dean pulls back to look at him.

''You fainted.”

Must be the lack of sleep, or food. Or both.

''Have you been eating? At all?'' Dean's tone is soft, like he's afraid Sam might shatter if he talked louder; Sam feels like he would.

His first instinct is to lie, knows it won't do any good because Dean is always able to figure him out. He toys with the idea of asking his brother the same, dismisses the thought fast. It might lead them to a fight that he's not ready to handle, so he answers truthfully.

''No.”

''Sam, you can't just...'' Dean doesn't finish whatever he wanted to say, shakes his head.

''Stay here,'' Dean gets up and runs out, mostly to make him something to eat. It's when he's alone that he realizes how selfish he acted. Dean is going through so much and here he is, breaking to pieces in Dean's arms soon as he got the chance. He promised himself that he'd be strong for Dean, and he'll be damned if he doesn't keep that promise.

When Dean comes back with food, Sam doesn't protest. He forces himself to chew and swallow, the food has no taste as he rolls it around with his tongue.  He eats it to please Dean, and his brother gives him a small smile when he finishes all the food on his plate. It's worth it.

 

 

 

 

They don't talk about it.

 

Dean acts normal, he drinks beer and jokes around and calls Sam a nerd. He doesn't ask about Cas, he doesn't try to go on his own again. But his brother is only acting how he used to be. Behind Dean's eyes there's only shadow. No glimpse of the brightness in the green depths Sam loves so much, Dean's smiles don't wrinkle the skin around his eyes. The bunker's walls don't reflect his deep, honey smooth laughter. Dean's body is there, but Dean is not in it.

No, that's not it.

Dean is there but he's caging himself in, holding back everything: the good and the bad. Leaving only a ghost of himself that Sam can't salt and burn for the life of him. And Sam misses his Dean so much his soul bleeds with it. He promised Dean to stop, to not try again. And after Rowena ran away with The Book of The Damned, he did. Almost.

He has to try again.

Once upon a time he would've felt guilty about pursuing his search for a cure despite knowing the end result is most likely disastrous. 

The Sam before Lucifer, Sam the college boy, the Sam who took his brother for granted, the one who walked away from Dean and never thought of being the one left behind, definitely would. That Sam has fallen apart, piece by piece with every way Dean has given up on him. What's left of him is a twisted version; selfish, ugly and missing something vital. The current Sam knows what it feels like to be without Dean, knows how bad it hurts, and so he can't worry about consequences, doesn't have it in him to care if people got hurt. Why do they have to suffer for others anyway? Can't he at least get to keep Dean? Hasn't he done enough to deserve at least this?

He'll deal with the answer later. For now he needs to save his brother, but more than that, he needs a way to keep Dean with him. And as long as that thing is marring his brother's skin, Dean might leave him anytime. The Mark has to go, consequences be damned.

Days later, Sam finds himself sitting in the library, alone. His fingers flipping through a thick book, three other similar books are spread on the table. His lids are dropping and there are dark circles under his eyes. He muffles a yawn with his left hand, ignores the dull pain in his lower back. The sound of glass placed quickly on the wood startles him, and he turns his head to see a steaming cup beside his hand. The handle is held in Dean's fingers still, and he follows the arm up to look at his brother.

He mentally braces himself for the argument he can see in Dean's tense shoulders, almost looking forward to it. His brother is only himself, these days, if he's obsessing about Sam's welfare. And Sam is not doing this to push him, but if he has nothing but these tiny scraps of his Dean, he's taking what he can. Dean stares at him for a while, lips opening and closing but no words coming out. Sam holds his breath.

''When was the last time you slept, Sam?'' Dean's not arguing, he's keeping his voice calm.

''Don't know.”It feels like it's been long, and he remembers suddenly, that he hasn't showered in a while, too. His hair is greasy, ends of his locks standing in every direction. Coupled with his bloodshot eyes, he must be quite the sight. Dean inhales.

''Sam,'' he says warningly.

They're not acknowledging it, but both of them know what he's doing. What he's desperately chasing after in blurred lines and dusty pages. Dean had made it clear, time and time again, that whatever the cure is, the payment would be higher than he's willing to give. Sam, wholeheartedly, disagrees.

They gaze at each other for a minute, and Sam averts his eyes. From the peripheral of his vision he sees Dean reaching out as if to touch him, but his brother tenses in mid air and retreats his hand.

''Find us a case,'' Dean says at last. And that's been another ongoing debate for them.  Sam's, obviously, opposed to them being out and about with Dean as trigger happy as he is.

''Dean..''

''I'm going crazy, Sam.'' The choked up truth in the four words are a fine string around Sam's heart, cutting into the muscle with every beat. How hard was it for Dean to say these words? To make this confession?

He nods and Dean sighs in relief, shoulders relaxing and stance going loose. He walks in the direction of the bedrooms, stops to shout ''And get some sleep, would you,'' over his shoulder before he makes his way out of the library.

Sam listens to his footsteps ‘till he no longer can, and a flash of time where he wasn't able to hear them for another reason goes through his mind, strengthening his resolve. He turns his head to the page he's been reading  and scowls, this isn't going anywhere. It's just like before he found the damn book, back to square one. He taps at the wood with his right index finger, lifts the cup of now cool coffee and takes a sip. An idea forms in his head. Maybe he doesn't need to look for a specific cure, he just needs something, _someone_ , powerful enough to cure it. With this new perspective in mind, he downs the rest of his beverage and gets his laptop, books lying forgotten on the table.

When he steps to the library again, everything is dark. Walls looking grayer in the dim light, and books more miserable on the shelves. The denim of his jeans scrubs between his thighs as he makes his way to the wall, finger pressing the light switch. The artificial illumination burns his fatigued eyes; the place is less depressing when there's light shining on the furniture, but just as dead when Dean is not here to fill the stillness with his presence. Dean went out to buy more booze, leaving Sam to his research. He decides to go to sleep, nothing else he can do tonight. He leans on the wall and lets his lids drop. Behind them he can see the pages he read on the website, so many words and so little truths. He'll have to find some books on the subject to confirm what the net has told him.

The ringing of his phone makes him jump, and he nearly drops it in his haste to answer. He knows it's Dean without having to read the ID on the screen.

''Yeah?''

 _''I'm staying out tonight, don't forget to eat.''_ Dean's voice carries on the other side of the call, and Sam feels his heart sink. Dean went to a bar.

''Are you...'' He cuts himself off because he doesn't know what he's meaning to ask.  _Are you with someone? Are you coming back, or will you ditch me again?_ Dean's exasperated huff on the speaker tells him he better talk now or he won't get the chance. He swallows past the lump in his throat and tries again, ''Are you sure you'll be okay?'' He opts to say, and he so badly wants Dean to say no, to come back home and never leave again.

'' _Why wouldn't I be, Sam?''_ It's the way Dean says his name that gets to him, in the same tender tone he uses when he says “Sammy.” Dean should've called him Sammy, but the moment would've been too soft and Dean's date is probably in ear shot, judging by the voices Sam can hear in the background.

''Okay,'' he whispers to the phone, eyes closing against the wetness that starts to gather. He doesn't have the right to be jealous, not anymore.

 _''Sleep,''_ Dean tells him in lieu of a goodbye and ends the call.

He suddenly doesn't feel like sleeping, and maybe it's a remnant of his childhood stubbornness when he just wanted to refuse whatever Dean or Dad asked him to do. It's the same bitterness that comes with every reminder Dean throws his way: that they're not the same.

He drags himself to their archive, determined to find the books he needs now. No use pretending he'll get any shut eye tonight.

 

 

There's a sound, not nearly a scream and as far away from a whisper. Something desperate and scared, so small and lost. She thinks she's heard this soul before, she knows she hasn't.

There was a sound similar to this, once upon a time, when she used to think that she wouldn't ever help a human again. That sound was a roaring shout, strong and frightening, if equally as desperate. That scream was the kind to tear through heaven and force the gods to listen. It was as much of a command as the soft pleas she's hearing now.

She looks down and considers. It can't be a coincidence when she is already heading there. Even if she isn't, the voice is too gut wrenching to ignore. When she descended to earth last time, she'd thought she wouldn't grant whomever it was asking for help anything. She was wrong so she doesn't assume this time around.

Humans are unpredictable.

When she sees him, her body stops breathing and her eyes blink. This soul is _so_ beautiful. And there's something about the shine of it, calling to her. She's felt this before, but she also hasn't.

She walks and he startles, eyes going wide in surprise as if he wasn't the one calling for her. Even his astonishment seems familiar to her, and somehow she's sure she knows him, but she's equally sure she doesn't.

''Ishtar?'' He asks, fidgeting and obviously uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

''And you are?'' She tries to keep her voice gentle, yet he flinches like he wasn't expecting to introduce himself in return. Odd, he hasn't struck her as stupid or impolite.

''Sam Winchester,'' He croaks, like his throat is hurting. She just now notices how pale he is; his eyes are haunted, dark circles give away his lack of sleep. It hits her why she thought she knew him: Winchester.

He reads the recognition on her face and grimaces, like it might be a disadvantage. She can't help the laughter erupting from her, she's almost forgotten how amusing humans can be. The scowl his face morphs into does nothing to calm her glee.

She knows without asking what he wants. It's in the name. She's ready for the words before he opens his mouth.

''My brother…” He says, like everything is clear now, what he wants and what he needs; what he's ready to give up. And there's beauty in his desperation, in the defeated lines of his hunched shoulders, in the tracks of dry tears on his cheeks, in the way his breath hitches around _brother._  How can she refuse him? She can't say no to this amount of love, she's never been able to.

Sam's not exactly staring, but he's taking her in. He's met a lot of deities in his life, and every one has screwed him over, one way or another. At first glance, she simply looks like a young woman dressed in a white old fashioned gown. She’s petite, short, and her waist is  small, but she's not skinny. Her bosom is round and full and her skin is pale, eyes and hair the colour of chocolate, the latter falling in gentle waves, covering her back. Nothing about her feels holy or godly, ‘till she moves. It's like she's floating on air, too graceful to be human, almost like she's standing out of concept, watching from behind a glass that separates two worlds.

''Samuel?'' Her words aren't carried into the air, they travel through him, resonate inside his skull.

''I assume you know how this works, since you called for me,'' she says conversationally. One might think they're old friends.

''I do something for you and you do something for me,'' he answers.

She nods, slowly, ''I suppose you can put it like that.”

No, not friends, but something similar to a teacher with their favourite student. She consider him  and nods again as if confirming something in her head, ''However, going over the rules won't hurt. I'm not particularly referring to you by this, but humans tend to misunderstand.”

This he knows for himself so he has no reason to complain. As much lore as he's read on her, there are probably tons of things wrong in regard to her legends or deals.

''Okay, tell me,'' he agrees.

''I will give you a mission to finish in exchange for one wish on your part. Once you hear your quest, you can no longer back out, and you cannot object to its nature; good or bad you'll have to do it,'' Her eyes fill with mirth, and her lips lift up in an almost sinister curve. He reminds himself that as bad as some parts of the lore makes her out to be, all her requests were for the benefit of humans. Taking a breath, he motions for her to go on.

''This is a onetime deal, Samuel. You cannot have two wishes. If I gift you something, I will not be able to do so again. Do you understand?''

It's okay, he wants but one thing.

''Yes,'' his answer comes out breathy, his body quivering, a rush of fear and anticipation. One chance.

''Very well, Samuel.'' She steps the few feet between them and takes his left hand in both of her much smaller ones, ''I am the goddess Ishtar,'' she chants, and the dungeon glows with blue- white light, faint and warm ''I bind myself to realize the desire of Samuel Winchester, once he accomplishes the task he willingly agreed to take,'' Her voice vibrates in his bones and the walls of the basement, light growing brighter as her words turn into another language that he can't comprehend. He assumes she's repeating what she said in her own tongue.

A bracelet of light forms around his wrist, going smaller and smaller ‘till it disappears inside his skin. The area glows for a while and then goes back to normal. He lifts his eyes back to the goddess. She lets his hand fall and levels him with a serious stare.

''What you're doing now is not for yourself, and yet it is selfish,'' she starts. ''It's pure as it is tainted. I will not judge you for your choices, Samuel. But I want you to remember, to always remember, the reasons behind them,''

He's committing her words to memory without really knowing why she's saying them. Maybe they're a part of his mission, maybe she is trying to teach him something. In this moment he doesn't really care. This is for Dean.

''Remember Samuel, why you're doing this, why we're standing here,'' She says as her body starts to flicker like an old lamp, ''And when you want something, hold fast and never let go,'' She disappears, leaving no trace behind. Standing alone in their basement, Sam's head starts to hurt. Photographs of people he’s never seen before invade his consciousness. Lying serene on tombs, surrounded by flowers. Weeping sounds in the background, filling his ears ‘till he has no choice but to cover them. A vain attempt to drown the voices away. He draws his eyes shut, falling to his knees as the pain in his head explodes to the rest of his body.

Names behind his closed lids, every one of them causing him to howl over in agony. He wants it to stop, he can't stop it. He knows it's a part of his mission, he has to endure. An unmeasured amount of time passes and,finally, Sam is able to move his limbs again. He gets up with difficulty and almost doubles over again, but he holds himself upright by fixing his hands on one of the shelves. The impact of his weight causes some files to fall, but he doesn't pay them mind. He walks out, his muscles trembling with the effort.

It feels like hours when he's finally seated in the library.  Joints all aching, and his head is a lost cause, but he doesn't have any more energy to waste on getting some pain killers from the kitchen. He needs to get his priorities straight, write the names down before he forgets them. It means another agonizing trip to his room if he decides to bring his notebook, so he forgoes the idea. Instead, he pulls out his laptop and googles the names Ishtar gave him.

What he was seeing was their funerals, whether it's already happened or will happen is an answer he will get soon. His fingers move over the keys rapidly, name after name bringing up numerous articles. They live in various regions, nowhere near each others, but he has his answer.

He saw the past. All of them are already dead. It's a case, he can work with it, doesn't have to make it into a big deal. If Ishtar wants him to hunt a monster then that's what he's gonna do. She couldn't have asked for a better thing.

He fires a text to Dean, resolutely not thinking that his brother is awake for a complete different reason. He turns back to the articles on his screen and throws himself into them. He can deal with the throbbing behind his eyes later.

 

 

''Sammy!,” Dean calls the moment he sets foot in the bunker. His brother had sent him a message informing him that he's found them a case.

At 3:24 am.

Which basically means Sam didn't sleep last night, again (never mind that Dean wasn't sleeping either, he can handle it, he wasn't the one who fainted). Dean knows that the dent in their relationship as of late is his fault. It's always his fault. Holding Sam at an arm's length, running off on him and, oh yeah, the attempted murder of their best friend. In short, Dean's been doing great to amend things with Sam. He wanted to talk to Sam after the whole thing with Cas, but he couldn't bring himself to face his brother.

How could anyone face the person who believed in them the most after letting them down? After the awful things he'd said to Sam on the day Charlie died. But distancing himself from Sam has brought them nothing but trouble and worry. He still didn't talk to Sam, and he kinda hopes he doesn't have to. He takes a breath, steeling himself for whatever's going to happen, and calls for Sam again.

No answer.

His heart thuds and he starts walking fast, steps coming to a halt when he realizes that Sam is okay. He's just sleeping. Head resting on his arms, shoulder hunched over the table. It can't be comfortable, but Dean feels better just knowing his little brother got some shut eye.

He debates himself on whether he should wake him up or not and decides he might as well make them breakfast before he ruins his brother's rest.

The kitchen is spotless, every item in its place, the only thing dirtied is the coffee machine. He gives a long sigh and rubs at his forehead. Not only did Sam stay up the whole night, he didn't eat either. Not so surprising.

In the past whatever number of years it's been since they had last been _together_ (seven years and five months). Sam has always stayed up when Dean went out, not eating dinner and looking at Dean with sad, accusatory eyes as he stumbled in the next morning.

It's not like their distance is easy on Dean; it's been taking its toll on him, too, but he honestly doesn't know what to do anymore. After Ruby, he never touched Sam like that again, never made love to him. He ended it in a fit of anger and he regrets nothing more. He smiles bitterly. He's always excelled at ruining the good things in his life.

He moves around the kitchen with ease and familiarity, laying all that he needs on the counter. He immerses himself in the mundane task of cooking, mind shutting down and hands moving on autopilot. One of the reasons he likes to cook is the simplicity of it. It gives him time to shut his brain off and something to do with his hands so he won't go crazy. He gets the tray ready and sets it on the table next to where Sam's arms are folded, pulls up a chair and sits facing his brother. He stares at the mop that's Sam's hair for a long while before he gets his courage.

Clearing his throat doesn't work and he sighs, feeling ridiculous, but he's not sure how to talk to Sam. They hadn't had a proper conversation since he locked himself up in his room, and this moment feels important. The way they'll handle this breakfast is going to set the pace and rules for their upcoming case. He nods to himself, strengthening his resolve, and then places his hand on Sam's shoulder, shaking him gently.

Sam wakes up with a jolt and places his hands in front of him as if to defend himself. Dean doesn't make a big deal out of it because Sam has always woken up this way. Always being attacked by his subconsciousness one way or another and Dean being useless against it.

''I made you breakfast,'' he starts awkwardly, because Sam is staring. It’s never good when Sam is staring. “Us, I made _us_ breakfast, because, you know..eh..we're eating together.” Way to go Dean, that wasn't weird at all. Sam smiles at him like he said something right, and the blanket of discomfort dissipates like it was never there.

''Thanks,'' his brother replies, almost shyly, and maybe this isn't so hard after all. It has been like this for them as long as he remembers. Awkward and difficult to easy as breathing to suffocating tension in 3.5 seconds. They jump between atmospheres like nobody's business.

They dig in and it's quiet for a few blissful minutes, but then Dean asks, ''You said something about a case?''

Sam sighs, put upon by the return of conversation. He nods reluctantly, opens his mouth in an attempt to say something, closes it and tries again. He finds his voice much easier this time, takes a moment to wonder if his body is programmed to keep things from Dean. He can tell Dean everything now, and they can argue and scream and maybe Dean would leave again and he'd definitely refuse to work the case. Or he could keep the shit he found out to himself, lie by omission until Dean finds out and their argument would be worse. He still chooses to ignore the pit in his stomach and go on about the job like it's nothing special. If he doesn't think too hard about it, about what he's putting on the line with this, it's just like any other case they’ve worked on.

''Yeah,'' he says, half answering his big brother, half convincing himself he's doing the right thing. Saving Dean is always the right thing, whether Dean agrees or not.

''Yeah. Something's been killing people all around the country,'' he finishes at last.

''Country? Isn't that a wider circle of work than we're used to?'' Dean wonders.

Sam nods.

''Yes, but get this, all of the victims have passed in the same way, with three days apart between the murders. According to the articles I've read, the bodies that have been found are woundless, and the autopsy failed to find a reason for death.''

''Sammy, you're connecting cases from around the whole U.S now, eh?'' This Dean says with a teasing smile, eyes shining with that glint of his when Sam does something Dean thinks is smart. Sam shakes his head in fond exasperation. He didn't find the case, not really. But Dean turns everything into a big deal when it's about Sam. It makes his heart swell big, and he almost forgets about where Dean was last night as his brother starts to gather their empty plates. Chattering on about when to leave and his expectations for the thing that they'd have to kill this time around, and which state they should head to first. Then Dean turns around and the reality of yesterday, of Dean spending the night in the arms of some nameless girl hits him full force. 

His hand is shaking as he pulls out the red material from Dean's back pocket, and he closes his eyes at the wave of familiar jealousy.

''So I take it you had fun?'' He spits it out like an ugly accusation, and Dean's hand freezes mid way to the plate he was reaching for. He turns around slowly and when he faces Sam, his eyes are full of guilt. Sam shouldn't do this, shouldn't sound or feel angry, has no right to feel betrayed because this isn't them anymore. Because Dean isn't his, not even when every piece of him is still Dean's.

Dean is staring at the panties Sam's lifting between his index and middle finger. Red silk trimmed with lace, and Sam knows firsthand how much Dean loves the things, how he used to go crazy on him on the nights Sam wore them, eating him out through wet cloth ‘till he couldn't do anything but beg. He unfolds the panties in both of his hands revealing the phone number Dean's girl had scrawled.

''Very classy,'' he taunts, chin gesturing at the number.

“Sam, I didn't-''

''-Whatever,'' Sam interrupts, because he doesn't want to hear it. So fucking bitter, so enraged and jealous and damn lonely for his brother.

''Sam,'' Dean tires again, but Sam throws the red lace at him and walks by.

''Let's just go, the last murder is our best shot.”

He doesn't wait for Dean to answer, almost runs out of the library.

In the car, the brief ease they managed to achieve during breakfast is all but dead, the air in the impala is thick with bitter silence and too many unsaid words. It leaves too much time for Sam to think; Louisiana is seven hours away, and his head won't shut up and let him be.

He can't help but think that Dean hasn't dangled his sex rendezvous in Sam's face since that hesitant kiss they shared after he got his soul back. Since the last time they tried to fix things. In the year after Ruby, Dean took delight in going out with any girl in sight, Anna, and many others, just to hurt Sam,. And back then, Sam understood, got that Dean wanted him to feel just as shitty. But after that kiss, the only kiss they shared when everything was going to hell, Dean stopped. Stopped sleeping around, stopped drowning himself in booze, stopped gloating about every fuck. Even the time they spent after Dean's year in purgatory hasn't pushed Dean to hurt him like that. Sam doesn't think Dean did this on purpose. He wasn't meant to see the damn panties, but he did and now he wants to fucking die.

In the motel, the guy at the register asks them if they want a king bed and Sam has to stop himself from laughing.

 

 

''So,'' Dean starts as he places his duffel on the bed closer to the door, ''Where to? The morgue or interviewing vics?'' Too casual, his brother is offering them an out, and Sam takes it with silent gratitude.

''How about we split up? I go to the morgue, you...'' At the look on Dean's face he doesn't finish, ''Or we could both go to the morgue, we can grab lunch on our way back, try to figure out the connection between the murders tonight, and see the victim's wife tomorrow.'' He curses at himself, praying that Dean will take his offer and won't be too stubborn about it. Sam has fucked up with his oh so cheerful ''let's split up'' as if he doesn't know how Dean is with the fucking Mark on his forearm. Stupid.

''Yeah, okay,'' Dean answers easily, and Sam lets out the breath he's been holding. He should pay closer attention to what he says if he wants this case to go smoothly.

Their meeting with the forensic pathologist doesn't add much to what they already know: the victim is young, newly married, and died suddenly in his house. His corpse shows no signs of assault, no poison in his stomach or blood, and nothing to indicate an underlying illnesses. The pathologist has declared the man completely healthy.

As there was nothing for them in the morgue, their time there was very brief and they decide to swing by the local police station before lunch. No luck. The police report informs them that there wasn't any trace of violence or breaking and entering whatsoever. Not a single piece of furniture was out of place, and the victim's clothes had been clean.

 

As to be expected of Louisiana, the weather is too hot for November. Sam doesn't complain, but he sure wants to. It has no business being sunny and 78 degrees in fucking November. For a moment he imagines the horror of having to work a case here in summer and decides that they lucked out.

Dean pulls out in front of the victim's house, which is nice depending on who you ask. It's all white with blue windows, and the front garden is obviously well taken care of, full of colorful flowers and lush, green grass. Dean makes a joke about the fence, and Sam shushes him before they ring the bell.

No one answers the door for several minutes and Sam suspects that there's no one inside ‘till he hears faint footsteps on the other side of the door. He shares a look with Dean, and Dean knocks again.

''FBI, please open the door.''

The woman who gets the door bears no resemblance to the picture they got of the happy newlywed. Her hair is greasy, lifted up in a messy pony tail. Her eyes are red rimmed and circled by black, and Sam would never open the door wearing what she is. The clothes on her are stained like she couldn't bother changing them, her stance screams sadness and indifference. He feels guilty coming here and disturbing her but they have no choice.

''I'm agent Smith,'' Dean begins, flashing his fake badge at the woman, who looks like she couldn't care less if they were government employees or serial killers. ''This is my partner, agent Miller. Mrs. Sophia Jones? Would you mind if we come inside, we have few questions.''

She glances between them wearily, ''I've been over this with the police not two days ago,'' flat tone, no annoyance, no anger. Sam winces.

''I'm sorry, Mrs. Jones, it's a routine that must be done. I promise you we won't take long,'' Sam tries to keep his voice calm and understanding, giving her his best sympathetic look.

She sighs, put upon, but she nods and steps aside, allowing them entry. The interior of the house is as far from the outside as can be, dirty floor and broken pieces of furniture, blinds drawn shut and no light. Sam's insides shrink, and the sweat dripping down his temples isn't entirely from the heat anymore. The house appears like whoever occupies it has all but lost the desire to live.

''Sorry about the mess,'' She says, not sounding apologetic in the least, just saying it because she knows she has to. Sam isn't feeling well; something is severely wrong.

''No worries,'' Dean reassures.

They take seats in the living room, Mrs. Jones sits on a big couch that's taking most of the room and Sam joins her on it, leaving a respectable space between them. Dean glances between the two like there's something he's not liking and then seats himself on an armchair across from them.

''So, Mrs. Jones-''

''Please, call me Sophia,'' she offers.

''Sophia,'' Dean starts again, '' What can you tell us about the day your husband passed?''

Sam knows his brother couldn't have phrased it differently, but he could have used a gentler tone. Sophia's face falls and Sam shoots Dean a disapproving look. Dean lifts his left hand in a surrendering gesture, telling Sam to take the lead on this one. Sam inhales.

''We know this must be really hard on you,'' he says softly.

''Do you?,'' she snaps, then covers her face with her hands and mumbles from behind them, ''I'm sorry, I didn't...'' Her breath hitches as she starts to tremble. Sam places a comforting hand on her shoulder, only because he doesn't know what else to do.

''We just barely started to be happy,'' she cries, ''We got back from our honeymoon less than a week ago.'' She gasps, ''There was nothing wrong...how...what am I supposed to do?''

She turns tired, pleading eyes towards Sam as if she truly believes he has the answer, and Sam doesn't know what to tell her. He's not good at moving on, and something in her stops him from giving his rehearsed words of comfort. Her pain is too real, too close to his own for him to just act like he cares and move on later. So he shakes his head, feeling surprised and ten times more helpless as she throws herself at him and starts to weep. She's exhausted, her shirt is too big for her, and she sounds like she'd shatter and fade away at any moment.

He turns towards Dean, searching for something, but Dean's eyes are dark and unreadable. He's staring daggers at Sophia, an aura of hostility is surrounding him, and Sam suddenly fears for the girl's life. He clears his throat and pulls away; Sophia doesn't bother with another empty apology and asks them to please leave. Dean is up and out of the door before she even finishes her sentence.

He thanks her and walks outside in haste. Dean is leaning against the car, his shoulders tense and his hands clenched into tight fists.

''Dean?''

''Get in the car, Sam,'' Dean's voice is strained and makes Sam stumble in his hurry to obey. He's sure it's the Mark giving Dean this edge, so he's not about to question. He can wait ‘till they get back to the motel and then figure it out where no civilians are in sight.

Dean makes it back to the motel in under ten minutes, fingers gripping the wheel to the point where they're shaking. His face is blank and his gaze is intense. He parks recklessly, slams the door harder than he's ever done before, and if he's willing to hurt the impala then this is more serious than Sam thought. Maybe he saw something in Mrs. Jones's house, maybe it's just one of his crazy moments. Maybe it's when he's finally going to beat Sam up and leave him. Again.

When he follows Dean inside, nothing happens. Sam watches as the anger leaves his brother with the breaths he's forcing himself to take. Dean's fingers are still drawn tight together, the lines of his muscles pulled taut; visible from underneath his cheap suit. He gives Sam a smile, nowhere near real but not as forced as it could be and Sam wants to ask what triggered this. Dean has been like a timed bomb, ready to explode and bring everything down in flames.

Memories from when they were small crosses before Sam's vision, the boy who used to have endless patience with him is now so different. He wonders how his other self would've dealt with this version of Dean.The jittery Dean who's dangerous even to Sam. How would four years old him, so little and stupid and full of Dean, act in front of the darkness that's swallowing everything he loves down? Would he cry? Ask dad to help?

How different is he from that boy, if he still wants to go to Dean and ask him to hide him from the scary things? Not all that much.

As tall as he is now, he'll always be that kid who follows Dean around like the sun would only come out tomorrow if Dean says it can.

''Well, that was helpful,'' Dean jokes, and it takes Sam few seconds to get that his brother is talking about their time with Sophia.

''Yeah.'' It's not really an answer but Dean wasn't asking, just obviously trying to act like he didn't storm out of the house earlier. Sam's tired, so he's ready to let Dean get away with it.

 

 

Their time in New Orleans comes to an end when another body drops in Lake Charles. It's a bitter pill to swallow every time the monster they're chasing gets ahead on the kills. It's frustrating because in his mind, Sam knows that they can't be faulted for it, they had nothing beside a count of obscure deaths that he still doesn't know the link between. It can't be random with the deaths being exactly three days apart each, and it can't be haphazard because he has to find something to lead him to the culprit. If it’s not a pattern, then what? They must have something in common and Sam is missing it.

Dean is angry and anxious like he's going cold turkey, but he makes the effort of a lame joke halfway to their new destination. Something about it at least being in the same state. Needless to say, Sam is not amused.

Dean glances at him and then his right hand goes up to silence Led Zeppelin. ''What's wrong, Sam?''

Sam huffs, he's not in the best mood after going over the article announcing the last victim's death.''It's just frustrating, they have to be connected somehow.''

''You're not usually this impatient,'' Dean remarks. Sam doesn't grace him with an answer, choosing to read the paper draped over his lap again. The girl is thirty-one, a high school teacher named Rachel Evans. She's been teaching math since she was twenty- four, in the same school. Her parents passed away in a car accident five years ago and her girlfriend of nearly nine years is the only known contact and was devastated. In short, she was ordinary and had nothing special about her to make her a target. And she has nothing in common with the rest of them. To top it all off every victim is in a different area, so the monster of the week may not really be a monster.

As if Dean is reading his mind, he says ''Our thing can't be corporal.'' Sam nods absentmindedly and goes back to writing notes. He needs internet so he'll have to put the rest of research off ‘till they sign in at some motel.

''And since it's moving on a schedule, it can't be a ghost,'' Dean reasons.

''A demon?'' Sam wonders aloud, ''We didn't find sulfur, so what does that leave us with?'' Dean shrugs and Sam rubs at his face helplessly.

''Maybe some sacrificing ritual?'' Sam suggests, the time intervals surely fit this theory.

''But those usually have some MO, like virgins,  not just a time table. None of the victims were virgins; in fact they were all in pretty committed relationships,'' Dean argues.

Sam furrows his brows. He feels like it's just there but he can't put his finger on it.

The road stretches in front of them, miles and miles of pavement eaten away by the impala. The sun is vertical and they don't have more than an hour to drive, it would still be lunch time when they stop. Sam wishes the girlfriend isn't as heartbroken as Sophia, knows it's terrible of him to regard people's grief as an inconvenience but he needs this case to be solved. This is about Dean.

Wait...

Girlfriend, wife, boyfriend.. Couples.

All the victims were in committed relationships.

''That's it,'' Sam declares excitedly, ''That's the connection, Dean. All of them were in a relationship!''

Dean scowls. ''Easy, Sam. That's nothing, almost everyone is in a relationship,'' he disagrees.

''Yes, but it must be something about the relationship thing,'' Sam insists, because there is nothing else ''now we just need to know what's so similar about them.''

''I don't know, Sam,'' Dean hesitates, ''Maybe it's something else, lots of things are similar between couples. They hold hands, they go to the movies and they smooch. What's so special about that?''

Sam knows that his brother is not arguing with him just to be an ass, but he can't help the anger that rises in him at Dean's mockery, ''So what's your idea then, Dean?'' He snaps.

Dean stays silent for long moments, just staring at the empty street. Eventually, he pats Sam's thigh in a pacifying gesture, ''I'm not trying to annoy you, Sammy. It's not adding up is all I'm saying,'' Sam nods and they both keep it at that for the rest of the way.

 

 

''She's dead,'' Sam announces once he's back in the motel, throwing the newspaper on the table, irritably. Dean's eyes don't leave the laptop screen as he asks: ''Who?''

''Sophia,'' Sam replies, shoulders going slack. She was found in her bathroom with her wrists slit; she killed herself.

''Oh?''

It's another thing that pushes Sam to solve this case urgently: Dean's losing his compassion, he's uninterested in the least. Dean from last year would be furious, would demand to know what happened instead of sitting with a laptop on his thighs, calm and uncaring.

''She committed suicide,'' Sam grits out, seeking a reaction from his brother.

''One less miserable person,'' Dean quips, and Sam has to rein himself from punching him. He breathes hard and looks at Dean, whose attention is still held by whatever is on the screen.

''Give me my laptop, I need it,''he gets out at last, not anywhere near the outburst he wants to have. This is The Mark, he reminds himself.

Dean, completely apathetic, returns to his laptop, takes a beer from the mini fridge in the corner of the room and flops down on one of the chairs, placing his legs one over the other.

''What did you get from the teacher's girlfriend?'' Dean sips from his beer and cranes his neck to see Sam.

''She was almost as bad as Sophia, but I managed to talk to her more-''

''Oh I bet,'' Dean interrupts, sarcastically.

''What?''

''Nothing,'' Dean motions with his hand for Sam to go on.

''It's nothing important, she mostly went on about how happy they were.'' Sam sounds more embittered by the moment, every second wasted on this is another second away from having his Dean back. He’s ready to hit his head on the wall when Dean suddenly stands up.

Sam lifts his eyes to where Dean is hovering at his bedside, staring at him intently, like he could figure life out by that alone. Sam raises an eyebrow.

''What happened to the others?'' Dean enquires, head tilted to the side and still gazing at Sam. It makes Sam's skin hot, being under Dean's scrutiny. Dean's intensity is obviously about whatever idea he got in his head and not Sam; Sam just happens to be the only person that Dean can look at right now. He swallows, distracted, hasn't the slightest thought what his brother is talking about.

''What others?,'' he bites out, barely maintaining his composure.  He wants to leap to the other side of the room, put space between himself and Dean.

Dean gestures with his chin at the screen.''Others, like Sophia,'' he replies. Sam cocks his head to the side, still not following. ''Like, how are they doing. Did they all die? That might be something.''  Sam's eyes widen and he nods, turning his head to the laptop, fingers typing fast. He hopes that the rest are all well, but a little part of him wishes for the connection, another something to add to the pile of weirdness they have, if only to give him more angles to consider. He doesn't want to think about what that makes him.

''Well,'' he starts, half disappointment, half relief in his tone, ''They're alive, but one of them, a guy named Jack Peterson, the husband of the first vic, was in the hospital for alcohol poisoning.”

Sam's face contracts in concentration, folds forming between his eyebrows and his mouth set into a scowl. Dean wants to reach out and smooth it, but it's not as easy anymore. He can't bring himself to shake the rage he felt at Sophia, and how simple it was for her to throw herself onto Sam. He was a second away from wrapping his fingers around her neck and squeezing the life out of her. He shakes the violent urge away, scratching at his forearm. His skin sings with the desire to smash and destroy, and it's only getting worse, not as bad as the day he almost murdered Cas, certainly not as bad as when he held that hammer and chased his little brother around what's supposed to be their safe home. He snorts without humour.

''Dean?''

''I was just thinking that last guy is like me,'' He says it to deflect but after the words leave his mouth he stops, ''Sam, that's what's special about the couples,'' He holds Sam's gaze ''They are in love, like _for real.”_

_Like us_

He wants to add, but that's not true. Not because they don't love each other anymore, God knows Dean lives and breathes for Sam, but because all the others would've ended up like Sophia if they were anything like Sam and Dean. Especially Dean.

Sam appears thoughtful for a moment, ''That's not farfetched but still not helpful. How many people in relationships are actually in love do you think? I'd say lots of them.''

''Not like this, something is more... _intense_ ,'' Dean insists. Sam knows he's right, but it still leaves them nowhere. So something is killing half couples, forsaking the other half to despair and pain. How can they track something like this?

With both of his hands, Sam wipes at his cheeks, passes his fingers through his hair causing it to stick up in all directions. Dean laughs softly; Sam looks so adorably annoyed. To add to his annoyance, Dean ruffles his hair, laughing more loudly as Sam indignantly swipes at his hand.

''Maybe we should get help,'' Sam suggests.

''From whom?''

''Other hunters.”

''No,'' Dean snaps, causing Sam to flinch. Maybe he's using more anger than necessary, but Sam has to understand that other hunters are bad news.

''Well, why not?'' Sam asks, irritably. Bitch face out in full force.

''I don't trust them, and they don't exactly like us.''

From the way Sam's frown deepens, Dean knows his explanation is not good enough, but he can't let Sam meet with them, not even with Dean there. The last time they worked with others, a bitch was all too happy to blame Sam for her parents' death. And Dean is done with their stupid asses, so he repeats:

''This is not up for discussion, no other hunters means _no_.” He leaves the room before Sam can answer.

 

 

It's not like he has another choice: contrary to what his big brother believes, he doesn't enjoy opposing Dean. And maybe if he gives it more consideration or if he's less desperate to solve the case, he'll decide against it. Hell, Dean is against it; like he'd said, they weren't exactly popular with other hunters. If Sam was a bit more pessimistic, he'd go as far to say other hunters hated their guts. He shakes his head, pushing the hair that falls in his eyes away with one hand as the other dials a number he got from Garth. His leg is twitching and his fingers, if not messing with his hair, are drumming on the table.

No one answers his calls. He tries again and again but he gets nothing. In the end he discards the phone and decides he'll see someone in person.

"Not a wise idea, Samuel."

He jumps at the unexpected voice inside the room, pushing the chair around to face its owner.

"Ishtar," he squeals out, heart still beating fast from the surprise.

"What are you doing here?,” he whispers harshly, looking around even though he knows Dean is not in the room with them.

She ignores his question, "I don't think it's wise to meet..." her eyes dart from object to object, as if she forgot the proper word to use "..others," she finishes, turning her honey colored eyes towards him. He isn't impressed, needless to say.

She gave him no leads on the case, just some names and a timetable, and he has a gut feeling that she knows what's causing the murders but won't tell him. He doesn't think she's evil, but he doesn't like her either.  He can't bring himself to trust her. He never trusted any of the things he made deals with; they always screwed him over, used his desperation and took too much. Not like he has the luxury of telling her to fuck off, beggars can’t be choosers.

"What’s that supposed to mean? " he snaps.

She, once again, ignores his enquiry, walking around the room. She looks exactly the same as she had the day he first met her. Same white gown, same hair and colours. In that scene she was as inhuman as she could be, frozen. Humans are variant and they don't stand time like she does. A few seconds would change a human, the folds on the clothes, the way their skin shines. Nothing about her has changed, as if she was a statue standing out of the time flow, unaffected by its current.

"You promised to help me," he reminds, the softness in his voice nothing but helplessness and despair.

She shakes her head, and even then her hair falls back like she never moved, "This is your quest,"

"And yet you're here," he argues.

She blinks twice, like she's taken aback by his response, then her lips lift lightly, amusement taking over her features. It irks him, the way she deals with him like he's an ill behaved child and she's his patient teacher.

"You're smart," she remarks with a hint of admiration. He doesn't know what brought on her sudden praise, and just like everything else she does, it makes him distraught and uncomfortable.

"The quest," she starts, reaching out "-is not about the end result.” Her hand lands on his face and he startles. She smiles fully in return for his surprise and doesn't finish her instructions, so he asks

"What's it about then?"

Her thumb sweeps over his cheekbone. "He's right.”

He wants to hit her, or choke her, preferably. He's almost sure she won't answer again but he is curious so he asks anyway.

"Who's right? About what?"

"You're breathtaking,"

This particular compliment is too much. Sam tilts his head away from her hand and she lets it drop beside her; she stares at him for a while and he remembers their first meeting again and how she was scrutinizing him.

"It's a disappointment, really-" she goes on as her fingers touch his chest, right above his heart “-that this is already taken,"

He stumbles back, putting some distance between them. He knows about her stories, and it never ended well for those who caught her eye. Once she kisses them, they fall under her spell and never escape. While she got bored and waltzed from a lover into the arms of another.

She takes a look at his terrified state and hollers with laughter. "Relax," she reassures, "My charms won't work on you."

He cocks his head in confusion, he almost forgot why she's here to begin with.

"Why can't I go to other hunters?," he repeats his earlier question, disregarding the previous line of conversation all together.

She gives a long sigh and turns to the window, "It's not that you shouldn't, it's you're better off without them. And it's not a good idea to go against your brother." To a point, it makes sense, but does she really care? Sam isn't sure.

Smiling at him indulgently, she says, "Do what you think best, Samuel. Remember, however, that a lesson told is not the same as a lesson learned." She nods at her own words, and he has no idea what she means by them. Is he to learn a lesson from his so called quest? If so, then what?

"Your brother is back," she whispers at the same time as footsteps are heard approaching from the outside. The door handle turns and when Sam glances back to where the goddess was standing, she is no longer there.

 

 

The night is cold, blue shadows fall silently on the walls and between scattered furniture pieces. The squeaky sound his feet make as they connect with the wooden floor cuts sharp through the calm, gives the impression that it's louder than it really is. He chances a glance at his slumbering brother, hoping that the miniscule noise didn't wake him . Every sound is exaggerated in the wee hours of the night, dark stillness and silence washing over the world and pointing every movement out like a sore thumb, so his muscles remain tense as he navigates his way around the small room. He briefly considers leaving a note for Dean but decides it won't be necessary as he’s going to be back shortly after Dean’s awaking.

He's calculated this carefully: Dean would wake up around 8 am, it's 2:43 am now, Sam would be able to get back at 9 am at the latest, and Dean wouldn't be the wiser.

He has a lot of reasons as to why he is not to ask for help, but he ran out of ideas, so he goes with it anyway, stepping out and into the cold air outside as silently as he could.

He walks what he estimates is a safe distance from their hotel and hotwires a car, the paper carrying the address is crumbled in his hand as he drives through empty streets.

His destination turns out to be a small apartment complex tucked back in a shady corner, the whole place smells of piss and smoke. The building's uncared for and old; what was white paint is now gray in parts and yellowish in others,flaking off in some spots. Sam ascends iron stairs, checking the address for the apartment number. When he finds the right door, he stands still, blinking at the ugly green wood. He's lost as to what to do next since visiting other hunters has never been something they do. Should he knock or just barge in?

Squaring his shoulders, he hits his knuckles on the door, the beats loud enough to rise whoever is inside out of their sleep, yet not loud enough to disturb the neighbors. Waiting for a few minutes in which nothing happens, Sam places his ear on the cold wood, trying to catch something on the other side. There are no signs of life or motion, the apartment is silent as a grave.

Steeling himself, he tries for the handle and finds the door unlocked, which alarms him. This is supposed to be the house of a hunter and, from experience, they are paranoid and distraught, no way would any of them leave his door open. He pulls out his gun, and gingerly makes his way inside; the apartment is dark, he can only see silhouettes of furniture and the shape of a window on the wall away from him. He leads carefully, body fitting easily into the gloom. He senses a rush of air behind him and moves to duck, but a thick bat connects with the back of his head, sending him to the ground. The hit isn’t enough to knock him out, but its strength leaves him dizzy.

The click of a gun's safety being removed echoes through the place and Sam swallows, placing his hands up to show good intentions.

''I'm not here to fight,'' he states calmly, years of staring down the end of the barrel helping him keep his composure.

''That's why you sneaked in,'' answers a rough voice.

''I knocked but no one answered, and the door wasn't locked. I was worried,'' he explains, his head starts spinning, and his vision gets hazy, maybe the hit was harsher than he thought it was. His mouth goes dry, knees aching from the funny position he's holding, ''My name is Sam Winchester, I'm-''

The gasp he hears prevents him from going on, the guy behind him starts shuffling around and cursing. ''Fuck, fuck, fuck,'' is muttered under his breath. The room floods with light as the man flicks the switch on, revealing a dirty floor and an old, miserable couch. The other hunter stumbles back to where Sam is, helping him up.

''I'm so sorry I hurt you, I swear I didn't know who you are, I swear I didn't,'' the guy rambles, almost too fast for Sam's dazed brain to follow. His words are apologetic but the tone is absolutely freaked and so is the man, sweat breaking out on his temples and his pupils dilating. Breathing hard and fast, he's going into a panic attack and Sam has no idea what triggered it.

''Hey! Hey, listen, it's okay, just breathe slowly,'' he instructs gently, and the man nods at him frantically, eyes wide.

''You should sit!,'' he shouts at Sam, pushing him ‘till the backs of his knees hit the couch. Sam complies, eyes glued to the frenzied man in front of him. The man almost trips over his feet in his haste retreat out of the room, and he's standing behind Sam again in no time. 

''Shit!,'' he exclaims as he inspects the hit he landed on Sam not three minutes ago, ''Fucking hell, this will bruise, oh God!'' He places something wet and cold on Sam's neck (ice, Sam muses), and then leaves again and brings back two white pills and a glass full of water.

''Here,'' he presents them to Sam who eyes them suspiciously before he lifts his head to take a look at the man. He's in his mid forties, mustache and beard dark brown with little gray in them, head completely bald; he's well built, broad shoulders and fat muscles covered with tattoos. Standing at almost Sam's height,  Sam thinks he can't win a one on one fight with the hunter. His fidgeting and twitching is confusing to say the least, and his gruff voice turns meek as he speaks.

''Please, it'll help with the pain and dizziness. Do you want me to take you to a hospital? I will.''

This goes beyond the guilt of hitting a fellow hunter accidently, the man is scared out of his mind as if Sam was a feral beast who would lash at him and bite his neck at any second. He takes pity on the man and swallows the pills, drinks all the water afterward. The guy nods at him and pulls a chair to sit across from Sam.

''Eh so, I really didn't know,'' the man starts again, Sam can already hear his apology, so he shakes his head and regrets the motion as a sharp pain throbs through his skull.

''Dude, relax. It's okay, really,'' he offers fast, the guy is almost out of his chair again at Sam's pained hiss. The hunter's face regains some colour at Sam's reassurance and he bobs his head numbly.

Sam clears his throat, the awkward atmosphere is getting to him faster than the pressure of a gun aimed at his head. ''Emm.. So..You're?'' It's a lame attempt to get onto a level ground but he isn't exactly Mr. Social no matter what Dean says.

''Oh, can I not tell you?'' At Sam's baffled expression he goes on, ''Listen I just hit you, and I'm ready to do whatever to make it up to you but can I not give you my name?'' The panic is sneaking back into his words, and Sam is growing curious as to why this man is acting like this.

''Can I ask why?''

The man's jaw twitches, hands clenching and unclenching; he's drenched now, drops of sweat falling down his throat and disappearing into his tee.

''Your brother would kill me,'' the man replies at last, shoulders slumping in defeat. ''I'd rather you put a bullet in my head now than have him do it,'' he whispers.

There are fifty alarm bells ringing in Sam's head at those words. The man knew Dean when he was a demon, there's no other way to explain it. It's like the air in the room is suddenly sucked out and both of them are trying in vain to get the necessary oxygen into their lungs.

''Listen,'' Sam starts, ''He isn't...he had a hard time the past few months-''

The sharp laugh that erupts from the man's throat cuts Sam off, the man is nearly hysterical as he struggles to bring himself down and breathe in normally. ''Past few months?'' He says, wheezing still at the joke Sam isn't getting. ''Try forever, pal.''

''When did you meet him?'' Sam enquires, trepidation mounting inside him, he's almost sure he won't like what's going to be said.

''I met him five years ago give or take.'' The hunter gets up abruptly and waltzes to what was most likely the kitchen, laughter lingering in his chest as he makes his way back with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. ''If I'm going to tell you that, we should both be drunk,'' he explains, seriously.

 

**West Virginia. 2010, sometime around midnight.**

_The night was darker than ever, clouds blocking any light the moon hoped to give, and the rain was falling over the houses and the roofs, washing the world anew and turning dirt into mud. A lone building stood in the wind and downpour, sheltering a group of tired men who had nowhere to call home. After a long battle with a stubborn ghost, the young hunter wished for nothing but to join them, leave the wetness of the slimy roads and enjoy a warm, dry bed._

_His knock was muffled by the splash, causing his wait to go longer. Every article of his clothes was soaking wet, and the cold was cutting through his skin and down to his bone; he almost lost all hope to feel warm._

_The door in front of him finally opened, revealing a familiar, smiling face._

_''Jeff! I thought you wouldn't make it!,'' the man inside greeted._

_''Like I have another place to sleep, asshole,'' Jeff replied and, despite the insult, his tone was warm and amiable._

_''Good to know you didn't lose your spark,'' the man shot drily._

_Inside, the light was yellow, soft and soothing, the fire lit in a far corne, everyone had objected to the wrong placement of the fireplace, complaining how it should be centered in the far wall instead of its current position. Jeff, however, had always thought that it was warm here, even with no fire. The sounds of laughter and glasses clicking on wooden tables drowned out the rain, and the drops on the roof were barely heard anymore, like the cold and wetness were from another realm; Jeff liked this place._

_He was about to pour himself a drink and join the rest of the men in their storytelling, but the door burst open, giving way to the harsh wind to blow through. As soon as the wind came in, two men rushed inside, dripping pools of water onto the wooden floor, soiling it with their dirty boots._

_Jeff didn't know them but the others did, the familiar way they were invited in was a clear sign they were welcomed here. They seemed stressed, however, and the inevitable question of what happened loomed ominously over their heads._

_''The great Walt and Roy,'' someone shouted from the back, and the whole place erupted in clapping and whistling.''How about you come in and gloat some more about killing the Winchester brothers?'' More clapping and noises and laughter followed, but Roy and Walt looked green, eyes frantically darting about._

_''Something the matter?,'' Jeff asked at the same time as the door flew off of its hinges and into the hall. Everyone stood up in alarm, all eleven hunters ready to fight whatever intruder dared to threaten their safe house._

_In walked a ghost, someone who was supposed to be six feet under, and all men froze; in awe or fear, it didn't matter, because Dean Winchester, alive and colder than the storm raging outside, was standing in the doorway. Casually flipping a knife in his hand, catching it by the handle once, and by its steel tip another, grooving inside and smiling wide. The glint in his eyes was enough to send shivers down the spines of everyone present._

_''You look worried, fellas,'' Dean said in a form of greeting, and the hunters were lost as how to respond. Dean nodded as if he confirmed something. ''I heard you guys had a bounty on Sammy,'' he goes on nonchalantly, strolling around the hall like he owned it. ''I didn't think much of it until this cutie pie-'' he pointed the knife at Walt, ''-shot him in the heart.'' He then put the knife on his chest, dragging it over the wet cloth to indicate where his brother had been shot. ''So you see, now we have a problem.'' He didn't finish, he just took his place in the middle of the room, squared his shoulders and stared at them, then he tipped his head back, eyes up on the ceiling. ''This is going to be unpleasant,'' he cracked his neck and looked at them again. ''For you, that is.'' His grin was predatory, and his green eyes were dark and deep. Jeff felt the fear soaking him worse than the rain, his bones chattering with it, and he_ _couldn't move. He couldn't hear over the sound of his heart beating in his ears, and the chant repeated in his head._

He's going to kill you, all of you.

_''I only want them,'' Dean stated calmly, gesturing with his chin at Walt and Roy as the hunters took fighting positions. ''No need for this to get ugly,'' he spoke gently, trying to convince them, and it tickled Jeff the wrong way. Logically he knew that Dean was no match for them all, but he was Dean Winchester, rumored to have gotten out of hell, Dean Winchester whom, not a week ago, was killed by Walt. Dean Winchester smiling leisurely at them, as if he had all the time in the world when his brother started the fucking apocalypse._

_The next second was a blur, colours in motion too fast for Jeff to see, and then the air in his lungs was punched out and he flew,_ flew _, whole body leaving the ground for seconds before he crushed into another man, they both fell down, and then the gunshots started. Dean was not aiming to kill, he knocked two men out with just his fists, his movements inhumanly graceful as he ducked away from thrown objects and bullets. Every punch he dealt meant a man out for them, and before Jeff knew it they were all on the ground, stripped down of their weapons and heavily injured. Dean Winchester stood amidst the mess, his right thigh bleeding from a gunshot wound, a slash through his shoulder and an ugly gash in his abdomen; he beat them down but he wouldn't make it. Or so Jeff thought._

_Dean looked down at his battered state and sighed like it was a mild inconvenience, like a mother would when her naughty child asked her to read him another story to stall his bedtime. He shrugged out of his jacket and pointed his gun forward, putting a bullet into every man's right thigh, but making sure not to hit a vital artery._

_He wanted them to stay alive._

_''Only because I don't know who shot me,'' he explained, sheepish like he might actually be feeling guilt at the act._

_Ten minutes later, he had them all tied up in piles, every four or three of them bounded with their backs' to each other, and Jeff wasn't sure how they reached this point but they did. In the middle, Dean placed Roy on an armchair, wrapping ropes around his wrists, fixing them by his side. Dean was still bleeding from the wounds he'd sustained in their earlier fight, but he didn't seem to care, humming under his breath as he limped around._

_''All done!,'' he declared when all of them were nice and useless. ''Be right back, now stay,'' he instructed like he'd do to a dog, and gimped out. When he was back, almost half an hour later, his injuries were dressed, and he had a bottle of beer in one hand and the knife he brought in the first time in the other. Like a picture of the devil himself, malicious and dangerous, Dean started to slash into Roy. The hall filled with pained screams, howling sounds, gut wrenching and hurt, and Dean didn't stop. Asked them to watch._

This is what happens when you hurt Sammy.

 _He repeated like a mantra, this is what happens if you try to kill him again, this_ this this _. As he sliced and cut and maimed, Roy didn't scream anymore, just muttered pleas that fell on deaf ears. When Dean was done with Roy he threw his body away, literally. His right hand_ _fisted in what remained of Roy's shirt and yanked. Dean lifted the corpse with one hand and tossed it on the other side of the room like his display of strength wasn't as frightening as any monster they fought. He grinned at them and dragged Walt to take Roy's place on the chair, his next sacrificial lamb._

_It was the same process with Walt, except Walt lost his spirit faster, stopped screaming all too soon for Dean's liking. So Dean opened him up, carved out some organs and showed them to him before he died. His dead body got the same treatment as his friend's, tossed about like unwanted garbage._

_Dean stood tall, covered in blood, his knife clutched in his hand and his knuckles white, but he had a smile so wide like he'd just won the lottery and when he turned to the rest of them some started begging; Jeff supposed there was no point in dignity if you were faced with this. If it was your last seconds._

_''I'm leaving,'' he announced, sounding bored and done, and Jeff had never felt so damn relieved in his life. ''No more following my brother around. I started the Armageddon, me_ , Dean Winchester _. And we're handling it, so stay away or come fight_ me _, it's up to you.'' He strolled away and as an afterthought he walked around and untied the guy closest to him._

_''Clean up the rest and burn those. I have no desire to meet them again.''_

_He walked out of the door, and his footsteps were louder than the rain and the wind outside. Two other hunters died on that day, and no hunter tried to follow the Winchesters again._

 

''No, that can't be,'' Sam whispers. He knows that the man has no reason to lie to him; if anything, the panic he showed was as real as it gets. Sam had figured out at some point in his life that Dean is stronger than he looks, or than he shows; Sam just didn't picture how _much_ stronger Dean is. The imagery the hunter described was nothing short of monstrous and terrifying, but Dean can't be really that powerful, can he?

It's not Sam's inability to see Dean as supernatural and accepting him anyway as much as it is his incapability to even think that he's missed something this big about his brother, as chewed up and spit out their relationship may be -might've been for too long- he's never stopped paying attention to Dean, not really.

He tucks away the emotions swirling in his chest for another time; later, he'll deal with it later. Now it's about the case. He's here to get the guy's help, whatever he's heard is just an unexpected turn of events that shouldn't deter him.

''I came here because I need your help,'' Sam says, glad to notice that his voice doesn't come out as shaky as he feels.

''Sure, man,'' the hunter agrees easily, and Sam is hit by the thought that he might be using the guy's fear to his advantage, thinks how this man would've most likely refused if he wasn't scared. Scared of Dean. He tries not to think about how many people in the past had helped him just because of that, remembers bitterly that there weren't many who helped him for his sake anyway. It was either because he's John's boy, or Dean's brother, never because he's Sam.

He should feel remorse, or regret, but he can't find it in himself. If fear is what's driving this man to help then Sam knows, with rising horror at himself, that he would shamelessly turn a blind eye. Because this is for Dean, everything is.

So he blanks his mind and lets his inner hunter lead, shuts down every sense in him except the logical part that's working a job, and spreads out the notes he has up ‘till now about the case.

''This is a weird ass pattern you caught up there, you sure it's the lover thing?''

Sam isn't really, it was more Dean's idea than his but it makes sense, somehow, for this case to be about lovers, considering how he got it in the first place.

''You've done a great job in putting up these articles together, not just anyone can follow something that moves around,'' the guy praises.

Dad did it all the time, back when he was following Azazel; he doesn't feel like telling this man about it, how he didn't put anything together.

''So what do you need me to do exactly?''

He comes out of the meeting empty handed and frustrated, the man read through his notes and came up with jack shit and a whole lot of zip. Pretty much where Sam is himself. He stands there for a while, the sun is coming out, painting the scattered clouds red and purple, obnoxiously hopeful. He leans against the car he stole, hands in his pockets and legs crossed, looking down without actually seeing. His mind is a buzzing hive of enquiries, each one leading him to a different, yet blocked path. He hates when people tell him something he doesn't know about Dean, he should know everything about Dean, one doesn't just not notice his brother being able to Superman his way through everything.

Because the way the man put it, his brother is indestructible, a force that's as terrifying as it is unnatural, and he'd seen Dean hurt too many times to count. Seen him roughed up and broken and bleeding and dead and dead and _dead_. At the same time, he remembers unexplainable little things that he let pass because, how could he have guessed?

He noticed in the past months that Dean's strength has increased, and he took The Mark as the easy, obvious explanation, but what if this power was always there, and the only thing The Mark did was make Dean's control over it slip?

By the time he gets back to the car, his nose is red and running, and he can't feel his fingers. The early morning air is crisp and cold, cutting through the layers he's wearing and messing his hair up. He drives the way back to the motel with his head swimming, as his life is cast into new light and everything he knows tilts around. When he almost crashes for the third time he pulls over, figures Dean would be more angry with him if he killed himself than if he woke up and didn't find him. Probably.

He stays in the car and stares at the road ‘till the colour on the clouds disappears and the sky turns baby blue, the sun almost vertical when the motel is in his sight. He leaves the car out of sight, knows it will be harder to explain why he needed to hotwire one if he wasn't going far. His original plan was to bring in breakfast with him, but since it's almost eleven he doesn't have a proper lie. He stands awkwardly in front of their room, trying to decide on what to say when Dean asks him  where he was.

He must go inside at some point so he might as well get it over with. He places his hand on the doorknob, turning it like he's trying to sneak in; he's not and his brother is awake but it's hard for Sam to not try. He can't bring himself to barge right in like he hadn't been planning on lying to Dean the whole time.

Dean is there, sitting on his bed with his head bent and his elbows resting on his knees, his shoulders are a tense line, and Sam can feel his anger, waves of rage emitting out from Dean and hitting him where he's standing on the doormat. Dean doesn’t move, doesn't lift his head, and his voice is deadly calm as he speaks.

"Where were you?" There's so much pent up fury in these three words, shimmering under the surface. Sam doesn't answer.

Dean stands, walks ‘till he's facing his baby brother, and Sam is caught prisoner in the smoldering green in Dean's intense gaze. "Where were you?" Dean repeats slowly, each word followed by an emphasizing pause. Sam swallows, catches Dean's eyes as they trail down the column of his throat.

''I ...em...'' He can't get anything out, and Dean is staring at him like he might eat him alive, Sam's not sure if he's dreading what's going to happen or anticipating it.

Dean lunges out, fists curling in Sam's collar right before he slams him into the wall. Sam's back hits the brick hard, and he winces at the impact. Dean follows after him, throwing all of his weight into Sam, face invading his space. There's less than two inches between their lips now, and Sam is already feeling weak with how close they are. Dean's words are hot and searing as he grits them out, the air around them burning Sam's skin where it lands on his chin.

''You're going behind my back _again_ , I told you to stop it!'' He pulls Sam to him and bangs him into the wall again, and this time Sam cries out, it hurts. They've fought before, more times than Sam cares to count, certainly more than they had to, but this time Dean is not budging, there's no give and take. This is not a fight, this is Dean enraged and close and so strong Sam is just a fly caught in the spider's web. Helpless prey.

''What are you not telling me? What did you do?'' Dean barks. Sam feels spit hitting his face with how harsh Dean's speech is.

He's so completely and utterly trapped, Dean's fury is boiling hot and dangerous, and Sam is not scared. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't have the right words and after what Dean did to Castiel maybe he should worry, but a part of him, the part that has always believed in Dean, doesn't let him.

''Dean,'' he wheezes out, and his brother stills, suddenly wide-eyed as if he's just now seeing the position he's holding Sam in.

Dean kisses him.

Dean kisses him like he wants it to hurt, like he's trying to suffocate him and Sam slumps against the wall, opening his mouth wide and welcoming. Dean pushes forward, lips moving hard, sucking and biting on Sam's tongue, no finesse to his movements, just hard slides that mean to inflict pain. There's blood in his mouth and fog in his head and he's so hard he can't help but thrust his hips. Dean growls, shoves him back hard, and he hisses in pain. Dean's hand creeps up from Sam's chest and tangle in his hair, tugs harshly, and Sam moans at the brutality of it, missing this so much he can't care whether or not he'll survive it.

As fast as he started it, Dean ends their kiss, but the glint in his eyes tells Sam that he's not quite done yet. His fingers are bruising their prints under Sam's shirt, on his arms, as Dean manhandles him and throws him on the bed. Before he has time to breathe, Dean is on him, feeding his tongue to Sam, forcing it as far into Sam's throat as it can go, his knees kick Sam's legs apart, making a space for himself right there where Sam's wanted him for so fucking long.

''Ah!,'' Sam lets out as Dean bites down on his neck, teeth sinking into his flesh, hands pushing impatiently at Sam's clothes. Sam wants to move, help Dean get them both undressed, but Dean clutches at his wrists, holding them immobile on the bed on the sides of Sam's head. He presses down, fingers tightening their hold, Sam screams but he doesn't try to push Dean away. He's hard, his dick straining against the zipper of his jeans and he cants his hips upward, frantically seeking relief. Dean answers him with a hard shove, pins Sam to the mattress with his body, their aching cocks cram together and they both hiss at the pleasure.

Dean doesn't relent, doesn't give him an inch, keeps pushing and thrusting against him. Sam's eyes roll back, moans and pleas that he doesn't understand fall out of his lips. Dean finally complies, strips Sam out of his jeans and flips him over, quickly taking hold of Sam's wrists again. This time, he places them over each other and seizes them with one hand, pressing them to the small of Sam's back, his other hand slides down and off of Sam's skin; Sam's dying to have it back on him.

Dean doesn't keep him waiting for long, thick fingers breaching into Sam, slick with spit and insistent. Dean pushes two in at once, harsh and fast. Sam shouts out but Dean goes on, digits moving in and out of Sam at a fast pace, uncaring and mechanical. Sam moans when Dean's tongue joins them, licking at the rim and dipping inside in quick motion. Dean eats him out like he's starving and Sam's flesh is his only sustenance, lapping long and hard at his rim, pushing his spit, scissoring his fingers all the while. Sam feels loose, muscles giving out, and hole twitching around his brother's wet tongue.

Dean's fingers pull out, and Sam whimpers at the loss, pushing his ass back, asking for more, his dick is leaking, achingly hard between his thighs, dripping pre-cum into the sheets. He tries in vain to free his hands, but the movement hurts too much. Even though his wrist is not broken, it's definitely strained; he pulls at them again and cries out in pain.

''Shhhhhh,'' Dean soothes behind him, and Sam wants to turn his head, kiss him again. He cranes his neck back, trying to capture Dean's mouth, but Dean grabs at his nape, violently shoving Sam, cheek down, into the pillow. Sam's looking at the far wall, but his vision is blurred, he knows he's not crying because his eyes are dry but he is dizzy. It's a weird moment to remember that he hasn't eaten since lunch yesterday, and maybe hasn't drunk anything but the water the hunter gave him. It would be ironic to pass out during their first time after forever.

Dean's cock is wet and hot and throbbing as it slams into him, breaking his line of thought with a harsh slide. There's no time to adjust, no experimentally movement, Dean thrusts forward, hard and fast, setting a punishing pace that Sam has no choice but to moan his way through. It hurts, his asshole burning where it's stretched open around Dean's girth, his wrists are throbbing, his neck aches where Dean's fingers are pressing down, but it feels good. Pleasure and pain blurring together as Dean fucks him gloriously hard, his voice is hoarse from screaming, and he's pushing backward into Dean, meeting every violent snap of his brother's hips as much as he can, contracting his muscles to hear more of Dean's groans.

It's fast and desperate, he's half clothed still, and Dean won't let Sam touch him. This is purely physical, Dean's chosen way of punishing Sam for hiding things from him. It's so cruel, so cruel, his heart shatters with every ruthless slide of Dean's cock, the pleasure of it too brutal, and his brother doesn't seem done yet, his rhythm keeps growing faster and stronger, pounding into Sam's ass with vicious abandon. It's getting more than he can take, Dean has never used so much force, never put this much intent into the movement of his muscles. This is the first time ever that Sam knows for sure he can't break away even if he tries, so pathetically under Dean's mercy; pinned down beneath him like a powerless gazelle waiting for the lion to deliver the last bite. But he's not scared, doesn't want it to stop, it's not about love; it's painful and animalistic, but he craves it. And he craves Dean, even if it's just this, even if for Dean, this is just a twisted form of revenge, Sam doesn't care. He wants it all.

''Dean, Dean, _Dean_ ,'' he chants, his brother's name the only word he can formulate right now. Dean's hands finally release their hold and he wraps his arms around Sam, bringing his chest flush with Sam's back as he keeps driving into him, his teeth marking their way down from Sam's neck to his shoulder, bite after bite, he feels like he's being preyed on, blood dripping down his arm from where Dean's teeth sank. His brother doesn't kiss or lick, nothing soothing. He's sucking bruises into Sam's neck and tightening his arms around his waist. He'll be black and blue everywhere, and it's a relief because he'll be able to press down on them come the morning, feel owned by Dean like he’s longed to feel for so long.

He comes with a muffled shout, body going limp as Dean continues to chase his own release, his brother fills him a moment later, his seed burning its way through Sam's body, leaking onto his thigh when Dean pulls out.

Dean rolls away from Sam and without his arms to carry Sam's weight, he falls on the mattress, muscles and joints all weak and quavering . He looks at his brother's tense back; Dean is still fully clothed, and he's shaking with pent up emotions. Sam can't see his face but he knows it’s contracted into an expression of guilt and pain.

''Please,'' he says, and he doesn't know what he's asking of Dean.

''Sam,'' Dean cuts in, warningly. Then he starts to undress, throwing his clothes on the floor except for his t-shirt, which he uses to clean them both. He wordlessly rids Sam of his own shirt, sliding in next to him on the bed; he doesn't pull him closer, just lies there beside him.

There's so much more between them than the two inches of physical distance, so much crap and hurt and secrets. Two inches that feel like a thousand miles and they're in the same bed but might as well be on different continents. Sam crosses them all the same, rests his head on Dean's shoulder and closes his eyes, fights the tears that surface when Dean doesn't hold him.

When he wakes up Dean is not there, just a cold meal and a note asking him to eat.

 

 

''So I have a theory,'' Sam starts. He's seated on one of the chairs that are too small for him, his laptop open on the table.

Dean lowers the beer bottle that he was about to take a sip from and places it on the table, he's sitting across from Sam, his chair parallel to the table rather than facing it, his legs crossed at the ankles on the table.

''Let's hear it,'' his brother answers.

After Dean came back two days ago, Sam had just gotten out of the shower, and apart from tending to his injuries, Dean completely ignored what happened, didn't even ask about where Sam had been again. Just proceeded to sweep it under the carpet in pure Winchester style.

''I think it's a reaper.''

One of Sam's wrists needed a band, it was badly swollen. The bite marks on the back of his neck and shoulders were vicious and all were cleaned with peroxide, his left side is all blue, and he has finger shaped bruises on his neck and hips and arms. His lip is cut, and though he didn't bleed, his asshole is still sore two days later. He doesn't regret it, wanted it even, but that's not what Dean's feeling.If Sam knows him - and he does- Dean is beating himself up about it, over and over again, convincing himself that touching Sam again would be bad and evil.

''Make sense, since there's no corporal evidence,'' Dean agrees. ''But why do you think he's doing this? You think someone bounded him to? The murders seem pretty random if it's put into human perspective.''

Dean is right of course, there's no one human who could know and hate all the victims and other than what they think the connection is, these poor sons of bitches had nothing in common. It makes Sam's head spin.

''Something for a ritual, '' he repeats the thought he reached days ago, frustrated that he has no other theories to offer. A bound reaper must follow a human's orders, and it's easier for a human to stay in one place, unless he's missing something else, which he probably is. After realizing what he said, both of them glance up at each other, Dean sitting upright, putting his feet on the floor again.

''That's it, Sammy!'' Dean announces, excitedly. ''Must be a fucked up kind of a god or demigod! Like the freaky Santa couple we hunted. Good times.'' He picks his bottle again, drinking at leisure, looking thoughtful. ''Well, back to square one; these things tend to be more in order, something else should be there with the vics, or the timing or the places.'' He gets up and rounds the table, leaning over Sam's shoulder to take a look at the screen.

''I think we missed something,'' Dean breathes near his ear, and Sam can't help the shiver that travels up his spine. ''We need a map,''

Sam turn his head, just a little to the side and his lips are on Dean's cheek, he doesn't do anything, just touches his mouth to the warm skin and breathes, chapped bottom lips catching on Dean's stubble and Dean stands up, pulling away.

''Dean,'' Sam whines. He's been trying the past two days, but Dean has walked around every one of his attempts and subtle suggestions, and he has no more patience for tiptoeing, he waited for _years_. Years where he thought he'd never get to feel Dean's hands on him again, never taste his lips, or make love to him. He thought Dean didn’t want him anymore, so he kept his distance and endured, but after what's happened he knows that Dean does want him, so holding back is not something he can bring himself to do now.

He forgoes his chair and follows his brother, ‘till there's no more than a foot between them. Sam would've walked closer, collided with Dean, but his big brother looks trapped, like he wants anything but to be in this room right now.

''I'm sorry,'' Dean whispers, head dropped down, avoiding eye contact. ''I hurt you, and I'm sorry,'' he repeats, and then it's calm as they simply stand there, a moment out of time drowned in silence so thick it could break.

''You didn't hurt me, Dean, not like that,'' Sam's words shatter the soundlessness, and the small pieces are seeping through him and settling there. He's never been more empty while Dean is alive and breathing.

Instead of a verbal response, Dean grabs his wrist, the one with the band, not violently like he did two days ago, but Sam still hisses in pain. Dean's eyes meet his, full of apologies that Sam doesn't need and won't ask for, and his grip around Sam's injured limb gentles; he's simply cradling Sam's hand between his calloused ones, stroking his fingers over the band.

''I hurt you,'' he says again, and Sam knows that in Dean's mind it's more severe than it really is, Dean has always been this way with injuries, dismissing his own as nothing and feeling Sam's pain multiplied. It's moments like these, when Dean's hands are tender on his skin and his eyes shiny, that Sam knows for sure that The Mark has nothing on his brother, that for all the talk of tainted souls and edging fast towards evil, his brother, his real Dean, is nothing but good.

''I wanted you,'' Sam tells him, because it's the truth, because they deserve something that soothes and reassures them, deserve to be happy. Sam has never been happy out of his big brothers arms, always lost and hollow without him. ''I _want_ you.''

Dean shakes his head, hands coming in front of him like he needs to stop an offense; Sam realizes that he's taken a step forward and halts his approach, Dean's defensive body language breaking his heart all the more. His brother moves toward him then, cupping Sam's face and brushing his cheekbones with his thumbs. Sam closes his eyes, he'll cry if he doesn't. He knows Dean's about to bolt.

It's clear in the way Dean's arms are shaking, Sam grabs blindly on Dean's forearms, he doesn't want him to leave, wants him to stay, stay and hold him together.

"Sammy..." It's a breath, small and helpless, the way Dean's always said his name when he didn't know what to do to make it better. The kiss he plants on Sam's lips is almost platonic, closed mouthed and barely there. He kisses Sam's eyelids, his nose, his cheeks and his lips again, so little pressure Sam might've imagined it.

Dean moves away, takes all his warmth with him and suddenly Sam's cold, the kind of cold that has nothing to do with the sun shining brightly outside, and the chill that wracks his body and settles deep in his marrow can't be chased away by hot drinks and blankets, only by Dean.

Dean who's walking away from him, grabbing his jacket from where it was on the back of the chair, the keys from the table, he marches to the door, stopping only to tell Sam not to wait up.

Sam's knees give out and he's on the floor the next second, eyes burning hot with the tears he refuses to shed, he gulps at the air, greedily breathing in as he tries to put himself back together. Their rough sex couldn't even get close to hurting him as much as Dean's rejection did. He hauls himself up and into the bed, doesn't bother taking his clothes off, just throws himself face down into the mattress and let his heavy body slump down, lets his lids fall shut. Maybe he won't dream.

  

**Wyoming, 2001:**

_He knew Dean wouldn't take it well, maybe even worse than Dad. Difference was, Sam didn't care what his father thought, but Dean's approval meant the world to Sam. And he'd wanted to get out of the miserable chain they called life so badly for so long, it's true, but he never wanted to hurt Dean. He'd expected screamed insults and accusing eyes, his big_ _brother said nothing, however, just stood there staring at him fighting with John like he wasn’t registering what was being said._

_Sam understood that the news came as a shock to Dean, he'd tried to tell him, to whisper the words against his neck where it smelled of love and comfort and everything was forgiven. But he was a coward and he knew how Dean would take it, knew that Dean would think Sam was trying to leave him, even when it couldn't be farther from the truth. It was how Dean worked, he blamed himself for everything._

_It's been over two hours since Dean stormed out of their rented cabin, off in the direction of the woods, asking not to be followed by heavy silence alone. His brother didn't come back, and Sam started to worry. What if Dean wasn't planning on coming back tonight? Would he really let Sam leave without saying goodbye, without saying anything at all?_

_The surge of ache he felt at the thought pushed him up and into the forest, he had to talk to Dean, make him understand, ask him to please come along. He found Dean after almost half an hour of walking around aimlessly, he prepared what he wanted to say to his brother, mentally braced himself for any arguments that would be sure to follow his words. But what he saw nearly broke his heart; Dean was sitting in the middle of fallen trees, all of them broken down recently as they were still fresh and fragrant. His knuckle were bloody, and his clothes had more holes than when he'd left home, he was sweating, breathing hard. Had Sam not known it's humanly impossible, he would've thought Dean broke the trees himself. Sam shook the absurd idea off and marched toward where his older brother was seated, he looked around before sitting on the trunk of a tree facing Dean._

_They sat there for what felt like forever, and Sam forgot what he was supposed to do, what he came here to tell, losing himself to the familiar comfort of being under a black, diamond filled sky._

_''You didn't tell me,'' Dean whispered gently into the night, his words were more sad than accusatory, not at all what Sam was expecting._

_''Dean-''_

_''-Were you planning to tell me?'' Dean interrupted._

_''Yes!'' Sam answered with fervor, because it was important for Dean to understand. ''I didn't know how you'd react. I was scared. I'm sorry.'' He wasn't sorry for applying, wasn't sorry he wanted something different for himself, but he was sorry it had to hurt Dean, he was sorry he had to choose, he was sorry he didn't tell Dean earlier._

_''I thought we told each other everything,'' Dean retorted, and it was a try at sarcasm but it came out bitter and bitten off._

_''Come with me,'' Sam blurted out. He didn't dare ask before, because if he asked he'd get an answer, and answers are final, answers would kill the seed of hope he was so carefully cultivating._

_''Sammy.'' It was because of the tender air around his name that Sam finally saw Dean's emotions: worry, fear, hurt. But under it all, pride. Dean was proud of him, so much that he didn't know what to say, couldn't blame Sam for what he did. Sam's breath got caught in his airway, and Dean's shiny eyes inspired his own to fill._

_''Ask me to stay, Dean.'' It was the last of himself, and he was offering it to Dean, and both of them knew, sure as the stars above them, that Sam would stay if Dean asked him to._ _But his brother, his rugged, selfless, beautiful Dean kept silent, only gazed at Sam like he was taking his fill. The muscles in his neck and jaw twitched with the desire to open his mouth and let the selfish request out, and yet Dean didn't move. Didn't make a sound._

_Sam's heart was never his own, and Dean was trying to give it back but it wasn't working. Sam wanted to stay, to bury himself in Dean and never come out, to die here staring into his green eyes._

_He wanted to run ‘till his legs would fall off and he could no longer breathe, far away where he could forget what Dean's kisses tasted like._

_He reached out and held one of Dean's hands, stood up pulling his brother with him. Sam guided them back to the place that would hold their last night together, and Dean followed, quietly._

_Sam laid himself on the bed and pulled Dean over him, and Dean went with it willingly, wrapped his arms around Sam so tight it hurt, and Sam didn't complain. He didn't care if Dean suffocated him tonight, part of him wished for it._

_Dean didn't look into his eyes like he always did when they made love, his head was hidden in the crook of Sam's sweaty neck. Grunts and groans the only sound he made, driving himself deep into Sam, so slow as if he never wanted the night to end. They held on ‘till the sun came up and never shared a word._

_There was a single kiss, Sam felt before he drifted, and he might've dreamed the words after but they were burning against his temple where Dean's lips branded them into his skin._

_''How could I ever ask that of you, Sammy?''_

_He knew Dean didn't want a reply, so he didn't give one, he could only give Dean the security of continuing his pretense to be asleep._

_In the morning, Dean drove him to the bus station, the air between them filled with unsaid words and so many broken promises of forever, and nothing else. They stood with four feet between them, eyes wet and both of them too stubborn to cry. Sam pondered for less than a second about the picture they made, two men staring at each other teary eyed._

_He's tempted to ask Dean to come with him again, but he knew that Dad needed Dean to keep him in check, that their father would die for real if Dean wasn't there with him. As good of a hunter as John was, he didn't know when to stop and take a break._

_''Goodbye, Dean.'' This wasn't what he wanted to say, it was wrong, no more wrong than ''I'll see you again'' because he didn't know if Dean would want that, but not right, never right for them._

_He turned around, forcing his legs to move. Dean won't answer, and it's enough heartbreak for them both that Sam has said it. If Dean said it back, Sam wouldn't be able to go._

_''Sammy!'' Dean called out, just before Sam reached the bus stop, and he turned around because he had no choice, Dean's voice a compelling spell._

_And his big brother stood there, yards away, smiling bright at him, more beautiful than anything had any right to be, the only colour in a grey world. He opened his arms wide, the way he did when they had arguments that went longer than both of them could take, he opened his arms, inviting Sam into them. Sam ran, his previously leaden legs suddenly light, body thrumming with barely contained energy, and collided with Dean._

_His momentum forced Dean to take a step back, but then Dean was spinning them around, his arms around Sam strong and capable, as he lifted him up and twirled them. Like this was their first meeting after a long time instead of goodbye. Sam laughed, tightened his hold around his big brother's neck and laughed._

_''Dean!'' He whispered, as Dean put him on the ground again and embraced him, ''I didn't think you could still do that,'' Sam said into Dean's neck where he was trying to melt himself._

_Dean chuckled, the vibrations going through Sam, making him smile, Dean is doing this for him, a joyful goodbye instead of tears filled one._

_''I will always carry you, kiddo.''_

_A promise, Dean was promising him to always be there if he needed him. Sam lifted his head and looked at Dean, taking in his beautiful features, memorizing them and before it became too much, Dean kissed him. Sweet and slow and heartbreaking, refusing to put the fear and desperation into this, their last act of love._

_The bus was filling with people and they couldn't bring themselves to move apart, kissing and holding on, the kiss broke with a wet sound and Dean rested his forehead on Sam's ''You're taller than me,'' he breathed, and reclaimed Sam's lips in another brain numbing kiss, Sam's lips curved upward._

_''Just barely,'' he answered, and dove back into more kisses. He hated that he was getting taller than Dean, hated that he'd probably have more inches on his big brother come next year, he enjoyed being manhandled and carried around and shoved into walls like he weighed nothing. He didn't want to be big, always wanted to be smaller than Dean._

_The last call for the bus cut their babble, and they both seemed surprised, like they forgot they'd have to pull away eventually. But Dean smiled and it was okay, they will meet again, maybe not so soon but they will, one last hurried kiss, and Sam was running toward his future, a place with no Dean in it, but somewhere he could find himself in._

_He would come to realize later on, that there's no him without his brother._

 

Sam wakes up with a start, tendrils of the memory still warm against his skin, the sun from that day lingering on his lashes. It's a memory he held on to during his years in college, on the days he thought Dean would call but never did. But that isn't why he recalled it now.

The trees.

Dean was powerful enough to break them down.

For how long had Dean been like this? How did it happen and why?

His mind wanders down memory lane for another thing, another piece of the puzzle. He's wondered about those trees for years, every time he remembered that night, he kept shoving the broken branches to the back of his mind, actively not considering it.

He calls back every wrestling match they had, every fight and every hunt Dean let himself lose to Sam on purpose, could've beat him up every fucking time, even when he had the Demon blood, even when he was possessed. Dean's always fought him as one would expect of a normal human. Dean isn't normal, and he lied to Sam about it. For fucking years, perhaps for all of their lives. The hypocritical asshole.

But Sam is lying too, hiding things too. He can't ask about it now, demand an explanation like he wants to do. No, he has to bite his tongue, deal with the hurt of his brother's lies later. He'll get back to it later. He still has so much to do.

The door to the room flies open, letting in a freaked out Dean, and every angry thought Sam was harboring dissipates into nothing as worry takes its place.

''Dean?''

 

 

 

He didn't mean to hurt Sam, but he did. Worst of it all is Sam's forgiveness, laid for him so easily, looking into Sam's pleading eyes and choosing not to give in is the hardest thing Dean had to do. Sam takes a step towards him and he lift his hands up involuntarily, he can't take the closeness now. Too much, it's too much. Sam's face crumbles and he stills, eyes shining and promising to pour over.

He frames Sam's face, brings him just a tad bit closer, trying to soothe him without having to talk. Thankfully, those beautiful hazel eyes shut, hiding the emotions threatening to bring Dean down. Dean's shaking, his body betraying the desire he feels, and he hates how he can't control it like he used to.

Sam's hands land on his forearms, holding strongly. His little brother is smart, knows Dean better than he knows himself, better than anyone else in the entire world. Before Sam had moved, Dean didn't know he wanted to leave. Sam does, Sam is clinging to him.

Sam thinks it's The Mark, but he's wrong; it's not, not really. His strength has always been there, from the day he was twenty and so in love and scared, the most precious thing in his world lying heavy in his weak arms. The Mark makes it hard for him to measure his strength, everything he feels is different, emotions come in bursts, sharp and cutting, and he can't contain them.

Two days ago when Sam came back, Dean's desire, relief and anger mixed together and he lashed out. And Sam was hurt. Covered in bruises. God, he hates himself so much for doing this to Sam, but he couldn't stop, and Sam didn't try to stop him, just laid there and took everything Dean had to dish out.

''Sammy...'' He doesn't know what to do, feeling trapped and helpless, desire building up inside his chest again and he's terrified, so he kisses Sam, slowly because he doesn't know how much is too strong anymore, and he barely feels it against his lips. Sam lets out a small choked off sound, so Dean plants more kisses on him, his eyelids, his nose and his plump cheeks that are weathering from long sleepless nights and not enough food. Kisses his lips one more time, because he can't help it. Then gathers his fragmented resolve and steps away, turns his back on his baby brother, and  snatches his jacket and keys.

''Don't wait up,'' he tells Sam. He has no intention of hooking up tonight, not with Sam's taste still fresh in his mouth; he said it to shut them both off, to let whatever it is blooming between them die before it becomes too big and consumes them both.

The door clicks behind him and he takes off, running to the car and switching on the engine too fast like he has somewhere he needs to be.

After an hour of random driving around, he parks the impala in front of a tacky bar, planning on hustling pool and then drinking himself into oblivion. Or forget the hustling, he'll just go straight to his old companion: Jack Daniel's.

The bar is small and full, buzzing with too many people, it smells like sweat and booze and something nasty. The air is suffocating, dim lights and smoke swirling around, he hates the bars where smoking is allowed, but he's not in the mood to look for another one, the urge to drink himself blind is stronger than his intolerance for the reek.

He makes his way toward the stools away from the entrance, the ones specifically dedicated to those having a miserable time and not looking for company other than the liquor's. He feels eyes on him, a gaze following his moves, and from the peripheral of his vision he catches sight of a young woman, dressed surprisingly decent for the place. She's young, not young enough for them to stop her and ask for an ID but young. She moves and nothing about her changes, her brown locks fall in the same arrangement. When their eyes meet, recognition hits him like a brick wall.

Ishtar.

 

**A small town in Iowa, 1999**

 

_That night the moon was full, its pale light falling like velvet against the leaves and branches of the trees, coloring the scene a faint blue. The air was cold and sharp like a razor edge, going right to the skin no matter the layers you have on. The fragrant of wet grass floating was softening the darkness with its freshness, far off sounds of owls were heard. It was a beautiful night. But Dean didn't care._

_He was dragging himself along with a half conscious Sam away from the small cabin that was the werewolves’ hideout. This hunt was supposed to be easy, dammit. It was supposed to be one wolf, not a whole pack. Sam wasn't supposed to get hurt._

_Dean had a red bleeding gash on his right thigh that made it near impossible for him to walk, and Sam...Sam was a wreck, claw marks fresh and ugly, laying on his chest, one of his legs was broken in at least three places, and he was losing focus, slipping away._

_''Stay with me, Sammy. Don't sleep.'' His brother grunted in response and Dean knew it was a lost cause. His legs gave out, and he fell to the ground, the wind breezed but he paid it no mind. Everything in him was tuned to Sam, he had him clutched to him, cradled on his lap like an overgrown baby.  Blood was pouring out of Sam at an alarming rate and Dean tried in vain to get back on his feet and carry his baby brother to the car, but he couldn't. He lost the ability to carry Sam the moment the werewolf slashed into him. There was no way he could make it to the impala in his current state. In desperation, he pressed down on Sam's wounds, attempting and failing to stop the flow of blood. If he didn't get Sam to a hospital in the next thirty minutes, his brother would die._

_Sam would die._

_''No,'' he whispered into Sam's neck, tears gathering in his eyes, ready to spill over. ''No!,'' he screamed. With his brother dying in his arms and tears in his eyes and nothing but desperation and anger, Dean screamed his heart out, calling for help, begging whoever might hear to come and save them._

_''You have quite the soul, young boy.''_

_He was startled out of his haze by the voice of a pretty brunette with hazel eyes and a pink mouth. She was barefoot and dressed completely in white like she might be a bride who lost her way to her wedding._

_Dean hugged his brother closer to his chest, eyeing the stranger distraughtly. She looked too weak to help them, too small. And even if she went to bring someone else, it might take longer than they have._

_''I can help you,'' she told him, ''give you a wish.'' She said it like she was expecting him to believe her, and in another time he might've questioned her but not now. Now he was terrified, now was the time for stupid decisions because nothing else mattered._

_''Please, just...Sam is...he's dying.'' He was crying openly, outright begging the beautiful stranger._

_''Make a wish, young boy. Tell me your name and make a wish.''_

_He wasn't sure, but what choice did he have?_

_''I'm Dean Winchester, I wish...'' He stopped there for a second, and then with unbreakable resolve he stared into her eyes '' I wish to always be strong enough to carry him.''_

_He didn't know what to expect, but her taking his hand in hers wasn't it. She held fast, her grip on him nearly painful. She started to sing in a foreign tongue, calm words like clear wind bells, and a warm light enveloped him. A ribbon of white light surrounded his wrist, right above his radial pulse, and it dissolved into his skin. She lifted her eyes then, looking at him intently._

_''What you're doing now is not for yourself, and yet it is selfish,'' she told him. ''It's pure as it is tainted. I will not judge you for your choices, Dean. But I want you to remember, to always remember, the reasons behind them.'' He nodded_ _resolutely_ _, and she went on._

_''You're doing this for him,'' she said. ''Not any other reason, so you must promise me...''_

_He bobbed his head frantically, ''Anything, I'll do anything, just help me save him,''_

_''Promise me to hold on to him.''_

_''I won't ever let him go,'' he swore to her, and she was no longer there. He felt his wound stop hurting, and when he stood, his brother weighed nothing in his arms._

_His run back to the car took less than a minute and he discovered that he was faster than he was, not only stronger._

_I_ _n the hospital when they asked to check his leg, his wound had already started healing._

 

**Nevada, 2002.**

 

_For once, Dean wasn't in Nevada for Las Vegas, he was in a punk ass motel and San Francisco was only 400 miles away. Sam was only 400 miles away. 12.5 gallon of gas, 40 dollars and he'd be there. But he couldn't; seeing Sam now would take him back to the start, to the first night without Sam's breath filling the space beside him._

_Dean was drunk on bitterness and whisky and too many days without Sam, he threw himself on the narrow bed- the one closer to the door because he still asked for two queens- and closed his eyes, too tired to think._

_A cool hand settled on his forehead and he jumped, gun held out in the direction of the threat._

_''You,'' he breathed, seeing the girl from last summer standing there inside his room._

_''You let him go,'' she accused, looking at him with sad eyes. He slumped down to the pillow, leaving his gun to fall on the ground. She didn't change, but he did. He knew her now, what she was. The fact that a goddess helped him with no strings attached never sat well with him. Maybe she was here now to collect whatever the price was._

_''Are you here to take it back?,'' he asked her, and she shook her head ''No'' while settling into the other bed parallel to his. She was studying him intently, like he was a fascinating thing that she's never seen before._

_''Why did you help me, back then?'' His eyes wandered towards the ceiling, following imaginary patterns._

_''You have beautiful eyes,'' she told him, like it made sense to her, and suddenly anger was coiling hot inside his chest. She laughed at him, shaking her head in something akin to fond frustration. ''You love him,'' she offered instead, and this time he stopped and considered her reply._

_''Do you help everyone in love?,'' he taunted, knowing full well what her answer would be._

_''No, just the ones with eyes like yours.'' She stared at him for a while and he sighed, flopping back onto the mattress._

_''What do you want from me?''_

_'_ _'Tell me about him.''_

_He didn't want to, not really, but he was so lonely, and it was the first time ever that someone knew about him and Sam, knew everything and didn't judge._

_''He's breathtaking.'' It was the only word he could think of when trying to describe his baby brother, and when he said it, it brought a smile to his lips, remembering Sam's red face every time Dean told him the compliment, how he'd accused him of being a sap, ''Not just by appearance but everything.'' Everything Sam did made his breath hitch in his chest, just the memory of him had Dean aching with longing._

_''I miss him so much,'' he hiccupped and he was almost crying now. Ishtar didn't speak, just sat there and listened. He talked ‘till his throat hurt, ‘till his mouth was dry and his lips were chapped, and she didn't interrupt him, seemingly captured by the way he loved Sam. When he was done she leaned close, planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. Smiling down at him._

_''You will be alright, Dean.'' Her words sounded like a promise, and he wanted to believe her. ''I'm here to say goodbye,'' she said after a minute, answering the first question he asked. He looked at her for a long time and then nodded. He wanted to thank her, but he couldn't, the words stuck in the back of his mouth. She gave him a last smile before she left. And for the first time, his chest felt light, a new resolve growing in him; he will have Sam back._

 

**Now**

A lump forms in his throat and he tries to swallow past it as he walks the distance to where she's seated. It's obvious for anyone who cares to look how out of place she is, too clean and haughty for the wretched wood and the mold on the walls. He takes the stool beside hers and she nods her head in greeting.

''Why are you here?'' she asks, hazel eyes full of accusation, like him being here is the biggest crime he could've committed.

''That's my question,'' he shoots back. Her sudden urge to frequent dirty bars is, after all, more surprising than his.

Like a mother who is too indulgent, she sighs, lifts her hand up to motion for the bartender to bring them a drink. The man places a glass of whiskey in front of each of them and she gestures with her hand at his, inviting him to drink.

Confused, Dean drinks small, tentative sips, as he takes her in and remembers their last encounter. She hasn't changed: the same white gown that's too much for the place, the same hair and eyes and skin. While lines were engraved into his face by the passing of time, she stood unaffected. A mere observer.

''Time took nothing from you,'' he tells her, like they're two old friends catching up after a long time. In a weird way, he feels like they are.

''Time took everything from me,'' she corrects in a low voice. He shakes his head and looks down at the tumbler in his hand. Maybe she's right, living forever sounds exhausting and lonely. So, so lonely. He puts the empty glass down, and she pushes her own at him.

''Time allowed you to keep what's important,'' she says. His eyes snap to her, and a bitter laugh bubbles in his chest that he can't help but let out, and it scratches his vocal cords on its way up, burns his throat more than the whiskey.

''Oh yeah?'' He bares his forearm, showing her the ugly scar resting there, ''Do you know what this is?''

She nods mutely.

''So you know how fucked up I am! How I can't control my power, my emotions, everything is too fucking much!'' He has no right to shout at her like it's her fault. Somewhere in his logical mind, he knows that, and while everything is sharpened, anger is the most dominant feeling. It rises in his chest, unrestrained, and his heart sends the urge to destroy through his arteries stronger than blood.

_Deform, break, kill._

__

''I hurt him!'' He spits out, rage boiling under his skin, ''I hurt _Sam_.'' He's panting now, every word he gets out costs him something vital, and if they weren't hammered beyond their brains, people might start to stare at him.

''The one person I should always care for, the one person I promised to protect...the one I became a monster for.''

He hears the sound of shattering glass and deep in his brain, he registers a dull pain in his palm. He broke the tumbler, his blood mixing with the whiskey as it drips down his fingers.

He blinks at it and then the rush in his ears clears, the fog on his eyes dissipates, nothing remains but an aching sensation of longing.

Sammy.

He wants to go back.

''You promised me something when I gave you this, Dean,'' She reminds him, gentle but stern. ''Do you remember?''

He nods. ''To never let go.''

They're standing in the bar for a minute and suddenly they're outside, feeling the breeze blowing through his hair and drying up his sweat. He takes in a relieved breath.

''So why are you?'' she asks, her voice louder than it was inside.

''I'm not,'' he protests. ''Never.''

''You should protect him, he needs you.'' Her grip on his forearm is harsh, wiry fingers pressing into his flesh.''You shouldn't be here,'' she says, and her urgent tone switches on alarm bells in his head.

''Why? What did he do?''

She shakes her head, messing up her hair for a second before it's impeccable again. ''You shouldn't be here!''

''Why?!,'' he screams, and she's not there anymore, he's alone in the parking lot, angry and scared. Something happened to Sam, or is about to happen to him, and no one is telling him what it is.

''Answer me, dammit!,'' he shouts, the echo of his voice his only answer.

This time when he drives the car past every speed limit, he does have a place to be.

He barges in like a man possessed, just barely registering his name being called in a worried manner. He marches in to where Sam is standing and pulls him into a bone crushing hug.

''Ow...Dean.'' His name resembles a whimper of pain more than anything else, but he's terrified and he can't bring himself to loosen the circle he has Sam entrapped in; he brings Sam a little closer to his chest, noting the hitch in his brother's breathing.

''Dean... _Dean_ , you're hurting me,'' Sam wheezes, and that does it. Dean's arms instantly ease their hold, the suffocating embrace turns gentle, as one of Dean's hands starts an up and down motion on Sam's spine, and Sam sighs into his ear.

Dean pulls back abruptly and takes Sam's face in between his palms, inspecting him intently.

''Are you okay?'' His voice wavers a little, he can't face Sam being hurt to get The Mark off, he'd rather die himself, along with everyone on the planet.

''I am, Dean. What's this about?'' Some of his fear is reflecting in Sam's question; after all, this hug they just shared is almost identical to the one Dean gave him when he sold his soul.

''Promise me, Sammy,'' Dean starts, body trembling, Ishtar's words echoing inside his skull, filling him with dread, ''Promise me!'' He shakes Sam, not to the point where it hurts but to make him see how important this is.

''What, Dean?''

''Promise me that whatever you're doing right now is not something that will hurt you later, tell me that you'll still be here when it's done. I don't care if you set the world on fire, just promise me you will be okay and I'll burn it down with you.''

Sam's eyes fill with tears, and he hides in the crook of Dean's neck, clinging to his shoulders, and Dean's arms circle him almost without his choice, an instinct engraved into him since he was made, _look out for Sammy_.

''I promise,'' Sam whispers into the junction between his neck and shoulder, his breath warm and moist, lips catching on the sweaty skin. Dean shivers involuntarily.

There's want shimmering under the surface, a desire to lay Sam down and take him apart to pieces, then put him back together, slow and gentle. But Dean doesn't move away, content in simply standing there, holding the most precious thing in the world near.

 

 

It's a nice night, wind gently blowing, and the clear sky that would be no doubt filled with stars if they weren't in a city. Dean parks the car in front of a small diner that appears clean enough so they won't worry about food poisoning. They get out of the car and their doors close almost at the same second, the thump echoing throughout the empty parking lot.

The place is warm, not crowded despite the early night, and they wordlessly head for the last booth in the row, sitting beside the window like they prefer to do. The guy who's working the shift gestures with his hand for them to give him a second before he comes and takes their orders. Sam would've liked it better if they ordered in, but his brother was climbing the walls and wouldn't let Sam work in peace, so they opted to dine out. He, of course, brought his laptop along.

''Another girl...'' he cuts off when the waiter stands by their table, the young man is dark and tall, wearing a white t-shirt that accentuates his built arms. He's carrying a small notebook and there's an apron wrapped around his waist. In short the guy, in Sam's opinion, is good looking. He nods at Dean then turns his back on him to face Sam, giving him a wide grin as he asks.

''So what would you like?'' The accompanying leer leaves no room for doubt: the guy is totally flirting with Sam, and grown up as he is, he's not used to talking directly to waiters in diners. Dean has always taken that as one of his big brother duties. He blushes hard and looks helplessly at Dean, noticing that his brother's face is set in a scowl.

Dean clears his throat, ''I'll take a cheeseburger and a soda. He,'' he gesture with his head at Sam, an angry move than has Sam hot, ''is taking a salad and a cup of coffee.'' The guy nods his head and turns to Sam once more.

''Is there anything else I can do for you?''

Sam shakes his head quickly, his hair falling in his eyes, his cheeks are once more tainted with red. Throwing him a smile, the guy finally leaves the table. Dean takes a deep breath and allows his posture to relax. Sam laughs.

''What?'' Dean snaps at him, arms crossing on his chest, defensively. Sam's smile widens. ''You're jealous,'' he singsongs

Dean scoffs, ''You wish! Anyway what were you about to say before Mr. Perfect came along to sweep you off your feet?''

Sam laughs again, he can't help it, Dean's sulking and grumpy tone is giving him endless delight. It’s been so long since Dean had showed his disapproval of people coming close to Sam, so long since Sam felt like he's _Dean's_.

''I found a pattern,'' he tells Dean proudly.

''Great!'' Dean grins at him, and Sam's heart swells, always the little brother longing for his big brother's praise.

He pushes the laptop to the middle of the table and turns it around a little so Dean can take a look.

''Son of bitch! Those two new dots you added...they're-''

''-yeah, more victims we missed the first time, their deaths are between the others, and that makes our new count one person every two days, not three like we thought, and it's a line,'' Sam goes on. ''Whatever this thing, it's going through states,'' he stops as their waiter comes back with their orders, placing them accordingly and making sure to smile at Sam before he leaves again. Sam wraps his fingers around the cup's handle and lifts it to his mouth, taking an experimental sip from the hot beverage.

Dean's face is expressionless, eerily calm as his gaze follows the waiter. Sam taps his fingers on the wood, bringing back Dean's attention. ''So the first body dropped in Tennessee, two in Mississippi, then one in Arkansas and now we're here in Lake Charles, Louisiana.'' Two deaths have happened in this state he doesn't add, Dean knows. Sam feels like he could've discovered the thing faster if he'd bothered searching about similar deaths instead of just the names that popped out in his head after his conversation with the Sumerian goddess.

''So next death would be tonight, either in Oklahoma or Texas,'' Dean concludes. ''We won't make it, but if another body does drop, then your theory is correct.''

''And if it's in Oklahoma we'll head straight to Texas; I think Oklahoma would have one death only,'' Sam muses.

''So either way, we're going to Texas.''

Sam nods his agreement, and they finish the meal in a companionable silence, sounds of the chatter around them comforting and familiar. And Sam feels like they're okay for the first time since Dean's gotten out of his room.

They decide to go to a bar; either way, they can't do anything but wait, if Sam's conclusion is correct -which usually is the case- then the next victim is already dead and would be in the paper come morning. Dean feels bad about it, knows Sam does too, the fact that they can't save the next one, using whoever the poor bastard is to confirm a theory is one of those evils they have to go through. He wishes it could go another way, hopes the next murder is the last, knows it won't be. They have a pattern, and even if it's right and they went to Texas, there's no way for them to know who the next target is. Dean takes a glance at his baby brother as they get inside the bar; Sam's no doubt thinking of all the crap currently circling Dean's mind, mostly beating himself up for it. He wants the night to be easy, for Sam to have a good time and relax. He's been wound tight for the past how many days, putting so much into this case and his -not really- secret search for a way to remove The Mark. Dean tries to trust it all to Sam. Sam's promised him that whatever he's up to, it won't end up hurting him, and that's enough for Dean.

He remembers the anger and the fear he felt the day they burned Charlie, he'd been devastated, and his rage had pushed him to say those damn words to Sam. He'd never meant them, was -is- terrified that looking for a cure would lead Sam to the same end result. The memory of Sam's body in his arms, warm and trembling and alive, promising Dean he'll be alright is the only thing keeping him sane.

So tonight is good.

On numerous occasions of his life, Dean wonders if the universe actively seeks to fuck him over. He tries for most of the days to not think about it, thinking about bad stuff is equal to inviting them in, so positive energy and all that jazz.

That what the night is supposed to be about: just Sam and him, and a relaxing evening. But just like everything else Dean plans, it doesn't work out.

Ten minutes after they are seated in a tucked away table, Dean walks to the bar, intending on buying them a round;  he greets the bartender cheerfully, asks for two bottles of beer. He leans his body on the wooden bar, forearm resting fully on the smooth, shiny surface, and he turns his face in Sam's direction.

Sam is not alone.

From where he's standing, he can't hear what the guy is saying but one glance is enough for him to recognize the bastard: the waiter from the diner. He's chatting amiably with his brother, the smile on his face big and dopey, and Dean gets it. Sam is gorgeous, he's tall and tanned and his eyes are big and soulful, one look at Sam can have stronger men on their knees. That's not the point.

Sam is taken; Sam is _his_ . Dean does _not_ share.

He takes purposeful steps towards the guy, intending to tell him to fuck off, but the guy makes the mistake that would be his last. He touches Sam.

He places his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeeze, Sam shrugs his hand away. The guy tries again, this time going to cup Sam's face. Sam jerks his head back and Dean's vision turns red.

 

''Dean! Dean, stop!''

 

There's something about how the bones snap that satisfies him, the feeling of them giving out and crushing under his knuckles, the next hit would break the skin, and his hands would be covered with blood, warm and thick.

The man under him is unconscious, his face is a mashed mess of blood and spit, Dean has him pinned to the ground, straddling him, fists raining down on his no longer recognizable face. Dean doesn't stop, it's feeding something deep inside, the monster living in the dark recess of his soul is demanding more. More violence, more blood.

The man is going to die, Dean will kill him, kill them all, everyone, anyone who touches Sam. He's going to dig up Sophia's grave and burn her body. He's going back to the town Sam has slept with the blonde girl in, and he's going to cut her locks off, and her toes and her tongue and he's going to gouge their eyes out because they looked at Sam, and Sam is his.

''Dean!''

There are arms around his waist, not restraining, not pulling him away, just resting there, a head heavy on his shoulder and a choked off sound of muffled crying.The body behind him is quivering.

''Dean...''

''Sammy,'' The world comes back in a shocking wave of colours and noises, and Dean stills, stares down at the man below him, the barely alive man, the knocked over table, the pieces of glass all over the floor.

Sam crying into his neck.

''Sammy, hey,'' he turns around and away from the battered man, getting up and dragging Sam out with him, Sam is shaking hard, tears falling uncontrolled, trailing down on his pink cheeks. He pushes Sam into the car and drives fast, no particular destination in mind, just getting away from the bar, the smell of metallic blood lingering in the air.

''Sam.'' He glances between the road and Sam, not sure which would kill him faster to not look at. Soon as he's far enough away, he parks the car and slides on the bench. He opens his arms and like a guided missile, Sam collides with him. Weeping with abandon, his tall frame shaking apart in Dean's hold, wet suffering sounds coming out of him, muffled by the cloth where his face is buried in Dean's chest. Dean feels his own eyes responding to his brother's cries, and he closes them to keep from sobbing himself.

''Shhhh, Sammy. I'm sorry, Sam, so sorry, baby.'' Sam shakes his head and pulls back, his eyes shiny, the tip of his nose is rosy and so are his cheeks, thick lashes further darkened by the salty tears still raining down from his gorgeous orbs. Sam's hair is askew, sticking up against his sweaty neck, and he's so beautiful Dean can't not kiss him.

The kiss is slow, gentle, and soothing, like cold water after wandering in the desert. Their lips move in sync, soft sweeps, just tasting each other. Dean nips on the full bottom lip. Unable to resist, he pulls it in and sucks on it, and Sam gasps into his mouth, pushes his body forward, trying to get closer to Dean.

They kiss until their breaths turn into hasty pants, hearts thudding in their chests, their lips are red and swollen and shiny with mixed saliva.

''Sammy,'' Dean husks, ''Baby, I want you.'' He wishes he can be better, stronger, wishes he's someone worthy of the look Sam's giving him, someone who wouldn't cause Sam to cry and suffer. He's so undeserving of his generous baby brother, the man in his arms is breathtaking, beautiful, inside and out.

Sam nods his head, their lips catch again, and Dean deepens the kiss, Sam's response is instantaneous as he opens his mouth wide, welcoming the intruding wet muscle inside. Their tongues dance around each other, Sam occasionally sucking on Dean's. They pull back to take in oxygen, and Dean has never hated his need to breathe more than he does now.

''Sammy, up,'' Dean commands, gently. As Sam lifts himself up, Dean slides closer to the door and clutches at Sam's right thigh, pulling it so his brother straddles him. Sam's head almost bumps the roof of the car but neither of them pay much attention to the cramped space. Tilting his head up, Dean starts kissing a trail from Sam's Adam's apple to the line of his jaw, ‘till he captures his cherry lips again, fingers of his left hand threading between the silky locks, and the other gripping on Sam's hip. When Dean sucks a tender spot behind his ear, Sam moans and his hips start to thrust down, rubbing his hard cock against Dean's. Dean tugs harshly at his hair, and Sam's head falls back, exposing the delicious length of his neck for Dean to kiss and bite his fill.

''Dean, god, Dean. More.'' Dean obliges, sliding his hands on Sam's side ‘till he reaches his waistband, his fingers creep under the shirt and caress warm, smooth skin. Sam arches into the touch, his arms hooked around Dean's neck.

''Off, this needs to get off,'' Dean growls, before claiming Sam's mouth in a passionate kiss that further ignites the fire between them. They pull and shuffle around ‘till both of them are free from their shirts, chests bare.

Dean takes a moment to appreciate what's being so eagerly offered: Sam's torso is a work of art, sculpted muscles covered with sweaty, glistening skin, the bruises Dean planted on his gorgeous body stand dark and proud in contrast with the lovely hue of tan. Dean attacks one of Sam's nipples, his tongue lapping at the quickly hardening nub and Sam nearly shouts, arms tightening around Dean's head, trying to get more of the pleasurable sensations. Planting kisses on his way to the other one, Dean gives the second nipple the same attention, sucking and biting at it ‘till Sam whimpers and tugs at his hair. Dean pulls back and Sam bows down, their lips smashing again, jaws falling open to make way for their hungry tongues to lick and explore.

Dean tugs and fusses at their jeans, opening Sam's and helping him to shed them. With their insistence on never breaking the kiss, it's a miracle they get Sam naked. Sam whines his protest into Dean's mouth.

''You too, get it off.'' His hand is pulling on Dean's jeans. Sam lifts himself up, and Dean pushes down the last article of his clothes, crumbling it near his feet, below the dashboard. Dean fumbles around his brother ‘till he opens the glove box, retrieving a bottle of lube.

Sam is hard against him, his cock flushed and leaking, he shoves against Dean's abs, seeking any kind of relief. Dean holds him in place with one hand, the other caressing inside the crack of his ass, he inserts a slicked finger and Sam pushes back on it, asking for more.

He doesn't waste time preparing Sam; soon he has Sam's hole stretched around three of his fingers, his brother babbling and writhing on them.

''Dean, come on. 'm ready,'' Sam slurs against his cheek, delirious with desire, and Dean is no better, he pours more of the oil on his hand, strokes his dick, and lines up with Sam's entrance.

With both of his hands on Sam's hips, he helps him impale himself on Dean's length, slowly ‘till Sam is sitting in his lap, Dean's balls resting against his ass. Dean doesn't wait long, he starts a gentle thrust with his hips and picks up his pace. And they rock together in fluid motion, Sam bringing himself down in the time Dean thrusts upward.

The slide of their bodies together feels so good, Dean's almost intoxicated with it. He slides his hands up Sam's flanks, over his shoulders ‘till he cups his face; they stare into each other's eyes, thrusts going slower, the rolling of their hips almost lazy as they take their time. Dean latches his mouth to the column of Sam's long neck, sucking gently, bringing the blood to the surface, enjoying the broken sounds his brother is letting out. He soothes the burn with cat like licks and butterfly kisses, going up and kissing all over Sam's face, telling him how much he loves him without words, with only his body.

Dean hits Sam's sweet spot and Sam whines, thighs trembling with the effort of riding his big brother's cock. He breathes hard into Dean's mouth, and lifts his head to look at Dean, eyes glassy with emotions, and Dean knows what he needs. He sneaks one of his hands down, wrapping his fingers around Sam's aching dick and jerking him in tandem with their rhythm, Sam cries out.

They come at nearly the same time, Sam's release painting Dean's abdomen in white, his contracting muscle pushing Dean over the edge and Dean's come rushes inside him in warm gushes.

They kiss leisurely as they recover from their orgasms, heartbeats and breathing going back to normal. Dean feels Sam's smile on his lips, and he offers one of his own to answer.

''That was awesome,'' Dean announces, and Sam nods in agreement.

 

The next day, a man dies in Oklahoma and they pack and head to Texas. Sam was right.

They're still faced with the problem of not knowing who the next victim is, and Sam is so frustrated with the internet that he's two seconds away from slamming his laptop against the wall.

His search for ''special couples'' brought results that are as silly as it sounds, it's his fault for the wording but he's honestly unable to come up with anything else to call these couples. His screen is filled with nonsense about soul mates, and he doesn't think these couples are. He wastes more than two hours scrolling down the stories people have about soul mates, none of them sound logical. The one that sticks with him is the belief that soul mates die together; when one dies the other does too. If only.

Sighing, he picks up his phone and dials Castiel. The angel might have something to offer on the matter, two rings and he hears his friend's raspy voice.

_''Hello, Sam.''_

''Hi, Cas, I hope you're doing well, how's things with Rowena?'' A period of silence passes and then Cas apologizes, he doesn't know where she is yet.

''It's fine, I actually want your help with something else.''

_''Of course.''_

''Do you know anything about couples, like special ones, something along the lines of soul mates but not really?,'' he asks, not expecting much, his vague description not really helping the matter so he adds, ''You know like they love each other but not...'' Not like Dean and I, he doesn't finish.

_''You mean paired souls?''_

''Em...I guess so, how do those work?''

_''They're the ones who are ‘meant to be’ as you humans say, the ones hit by a cupid arrow, or those who fall in love deeply. They have things in common with soul mates but not quite.''_

''What do you mean?'' Sam presses. This could be helpful.

 _''They share a heaven, too. But they're not as rare; soul mates happen with thousands of years between them while paired souls are very much abundant. The best way to explain the difference is in their threads of fate. The threads of paired souls are ones that appear close_ _to each other, you can cut one without affecting the other. Soul mates' threads are entwined, wrapped around each other to the point where one can't be without the other.''_

''Oh,'' Sam breathes deeply, struck by the description.

 _''Your parents were paired souls,''_ Castiel informs.

''Is there a way to recognize them?'' This is the most important thing.

_''Not unless you can see their fate threads.''_

''Can you?''

_''No.''_

Sam's shoulders slump.

''Thanks, man.'' They say their goodbyes and he cuts the line. While educational, his conversation with Cas didn't help all that much except for confirming that, yes, it was the relationship thing.

''I brought food,'' Dean's voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He smiles at his brother, not feeling like eating but knowing that Dean won't let him skip the meal.

 

 

 

He lies awake on his bed, staring at his brother's back. Dean's sleeping, has been for over fifteen minutes now, but Sam wants to be sure. He hates sneaking out, hates that he's not telling Dean about the whole deal he has with Ishtar, Dean knows that he's up to something, made him promise to not get hurt and truth is, Sam isn't sure. He would've told Dean anything in that moment, done anything to calm him. He thinks he won't end up dead, believes the Sumerian goddess won't screw him over. He has to believe she won't, or else what's the point?

He leaves his bed quietly, his socks silent over the dirty carpet and dresses himself in a hurry. Leans down over his duffel, he needs to get some things and then he'll be on his way. The sound of the zipper cuts the calm and Dean stirs.

''Sammy?,'' Dean groans, voice gruff with sleep. Sam closes his eyes. When he gets no answer, Dean sits up. ''Sam,'' he tries again, this time more alert.

''Go back to sleep, Dean.'' But Dean doesn't, of course he doesn't, he turns and places his feet on the floor, eyes looking for Sam in the darkness.

''Where are you going?,'' Dean's question doesn't curry anger, just genuine curiosity.

''Out.''

''I can see that, Sammy.'' Exasperated, Dean stands up and walks towards him, comes to hover over Sam.

Sam takes a breath, decides _fuck it_ Dean would have to know at some point. ''I'm going to summon Ishtar-''

''Ishtar? Sumerian goddess of war and love, Ishtar?'' Dean exclaims.

''Listen, it's nothing bad, she...She doesn't look like she'll hurt me,'' he finishes at last. Dean goes back to sit on his bed, and he switches on the lamp beside it. He lifts his head to look at Sam, then pats the space beside him. Sam gets to his feet and sits where Dean has indicated.

''Go on,'' Dean encourages, tone strangely patient.

''You're not upset?'' Sam can't help but wonder.

''I knew you wouldn't leave it alone, Sammy.'' He stops, then looks directly at Sam. ''I wouldn't have.'' He gives Sam a small smile that's more resigned than anything else, but it's a smile nonetheless and Sam is willing to take what he can.

He tells Dean about how he first summoned the goddess, about the case and the quest and the one wish, apologizes for lying to Dean about it. He's about to ask, to finally acknowledge what happened between them twice now and was ignored by them both, he wants to ask Dean about his power, about so many things, but the moment feels inadequate. So he keeps his mouth shut and grins at Dean.

He's scared. Scared that the answers Dean might give would hurt him, afraid that the sex they had is nothing but that: sex. Both times were more than great, but after both of them Dean had withdrawn from him. They didn't kiss outside of them, didn't sleep in the same bed. Sam wants to lean in and capture Dean's mouth, wants to beg him to take him apart and put him back together, slowly like he used to do. And he would have, but a memory of red panties folded in Dean's back pocket stops him. Was he the same to Dean as that nameless girl?

''I can hear you thinking,'' Dean teases, and at Sam's somber expression his smile falls. ''Sammy?''

''Did you mean it?,'' he rasps, so close to tears.

''Mean what, Sam?,'' Dean asks, obviously alarmed at the sudden change in atmosphere.

''Last night in the car. Was it just that?'' His brother furrows his brows at him, and then he's being pulled into Dean's arms.

''Of course I did, Sammy,'' Dean breathes into his ear, and Sam starts to tremble.

''What about her? Was she good to you?'' He hates how he sounds, whiny and childish; he had no right to that night, they weren't together, but the bitter jealousy won't let him be.

''Sam, I really don't know who are you tal-''

''The girl you hooked up with the night before we first went to Louisiana, the one who left her fucking _underwear_ in your pocket, with her number,'' Sam snaps, and Dean chuckles.

''I didn't sleep with her, Sammy. Just drank with her and she was all over me but then I made a lame excuse and left. Guess she left me that in case I changed my mind.''

Sam lifts his eyes so he can look at Dean. Dean's expression is warm and open and Sam relaxes, believing his words to be the truth.

''Did you keep it?,'' he asks after a while, this time Dean gets what he's talking about without confusion.

''No,'' Dean shakes his head.

''Shame, really. I would've put it to good use.'' Dean groans and Sam's smile widens; they're good.

''Can I kiss you, Sammy?''

Sam stares into his brother's eyes, then he nods mutely. How could he say no to that?

They come together slowly, lips barely moving against each other, Dean's arms still circling Sam's waist, and there's no lust to it, just gentle pressure and shared breaths. Sam missed this closeness more than the sex, more than anything.

''So,'' Dean starts once he's pulled back. ''What were you about to do, any chance I could help?''

They rearrange the furniture in the room and remove the carpet. Dean is lighting candles as Sam draws the sigils on the floor; he hopes it'll work, that Ishtar would slip, otherwise he has no hope of solving this case.

''You done?'' Dean dusts his hands, a sign that his part has been carried out and Sam nods as he brushes the last touches to the symbol he's working on.

''Done!'' He stands between the lit candles, the warm glow has the shadows dancing with the flickering of the fire. He glances at Dean who gives him a reassuring nod, and Sam starts to chant. He's not halfway through the spell when the fire of the candles goes higher and higher, going back to normal after few seconds. Ishtar is standing in the middle of the room, smirking at them.

''Hello, Samuel,'' she greets, casual as you please as she starts strolling around the room, walking past Sam and stopping in front of Dean.

''Dean,'' she acknowledges with a nod and Sam thinks about the oddity of the gesture, too familiar for a first meeting, but then Ishtar extends her hand, offering it knuckles first to Dean. Dean takes her small hand in his darker, larger one, and lifts it to his mouth, planting a formal kiss on the skin like a gentleman would.

''It's a pleasure,'' she snickers, tone so obviously sarcastic. ''I've heard tons about you,''

''Likewise,'' Dean grits out, eyes staring daggers at her. She lets out an exaggerated sigh, and Sam copies the action involuntarily. He should've known that his brother wouldn't like anyone in any kind of deal with Sam.

She turns her attention to him and arches a brow, a clear query as to why he called for her. ''I believe you didn't just want to introduce us,'' she says.

He nods in affirmation. ''I want to ask you about the next victim,'' She cocks her head, confused. He goes on, ''I want you to tell me who and where they are,''

She throws her head back, her cheerful laughter spilling into the still night, ''You're something else, Samuel,'' she praises. ''Now, why would I do that?'' She tilts her head to the side, hair sliding smoothly over her shoulder.

Sam breathes in, it's time to put his plan to work, but first he needs her to react. ''It's only fair; you told Gilgamesh the name and place of his enemy when you asked for his help.''

At the mention of the legendary hero, her eyes harden, no trace of humour left in them. ''I asked for his help; he wanted nothing in return, of course I told him,'' her tone is as close to angry as Sam's ever heard her, the first slip of composure. He suspected that hitting her pride would be his best chance, so he chose the young king who was the only man to ever refuse her.

''You gave me nothing but three names, I figured everything else on my own. I know this has something to do with you. The one doing this, you know them, right?'' He lowers his voice on the last part, trying to act considerate.

''You're too smart for your own good, Samuel.'' It's not a direct answer but it's enough, she _does_ know the one behind the crimes personally. A Sumerian god is their best bet, one that has a personal beef with her. Truth to be told, Sam was leaning toward that conclusion, he just needed confirmation, he knew if he played his cards right, she would slip enough to give him a better idea about their target.

''Ishtar.'' Dean's tone is a warning bordering on a threat. Sam knows his brother is reckless enough to ruin things with the only one who might be able to help them and  he's about to interfere but, on her part, Ishtar looks amused, her lips curving upward in what Sam knows now is a fake smile.

''Yes, Dean?,'' she says, pleasantly.

Sam feels something stirring in his chest at the way the goddess addresses his brother. She talks to Sam like she's his mother, but with Dean she's every bit the courtesan that history claimed her to be. She's flirtatious and easy, even the way she introduced herself to him was different than the way they met. His mind flashes to her words, she's called him breathtaking, but she still didn't look at him like she's looking at Dean now.

''If you hurt my brother-'' She lifts her hand and Dean's jaw snaps shut. Sam is almost amazed at the effect her movement had on his brother, his mind wanders briefly to her stories, and the thought of Dean falling for her charms leaves him anxious.

''Watch your tone with me, young boy.'' It's not a threat, barely a warning, but his brother looks like she's holding a knife to his throat, his fist curled helplessly at his sides. Something shifts in Sam's brain.

''Do you know each other?''

Dean's face is surprised while Ishtar's morphs into a gleeful expression. She shakes her head at him. ''Too smart,'' she murmurs, then louder she says, ''No, we do not know each other.''

And Sam knows then, she's _lying_.

''I had planned to drag this out as long as it could go, but it's stopped being entertaining,'' she announces.

''I'll have you know, Samuel, that the results are not what this is about,'' she reminds him, parroting herself. ''And I'm sure you would've found out on your own, but I'm telling you.'' She pushes her hair back, and it flies around before it settles, gleaming in the light of the candles.

''It's Dumuzid.''

Dean says ''Your husband?'' at the same time Sam asks, ''The god of harvest?''

She blinks at them as they glance at each other quickly, and she cackles. ''It's delightful, watching you together,'' she tells them. ''Yes to both.''

''Ain't he dead?,'' they speak in sync again and she laughs hard, her shoulders jiggle with the vibrations of her mirth.

''He's supposed to be.''

''Would you mind explaining?'' Dean snaps, then as if shocked at his boldness, he lifts his hands in a sign of surrender.

''He was in the underworld for a long time. But my sister, Ereshkigal-,''

''The goddess of Irkalla,'' Sam interrupts. She nods and continues, ''-has sent him back to earth in order to get revenge on me.''

''Let's just sit down, this seems like a long conversation,'' Dean says, loudly. The goddess shakes her head at him, almost fond. Sam doesn't like it one bit; he's read about Ishtar, he knows how she is with men. And now he's sure they've known each other, but he doesn't want to interrupt her since she's finally telling him about the case.

Dean puts the table back in the middle of the room, and Sam switches on the light and helps Dean arrange the chairs around the table. Ishtar, on her part, extinguishes the candles. They sit across from each other, Sam and Dean on one side, and Ishtar on the other.

''My sister and I,'' she starts, ''have a rather unfortunate relationship.'' She looks uncomfortable, strangely human, seated on an old wooden chair.

''She tried to kill you, trap you in the underworld,'' Sam finishes for her. ''And you offered your husband, Dumuzid, to take your place. Is that why he's doing this?''

''It didn't quite go like that; history likes to paint me as evil, it appears.'' She doesn't sound bothered by it, more amused than anything else. ''The important part is, Ereshkigal wants to ruin my work by killing lovers. Dumuzid thinks that if he killed them all, he'd catch _them_.''

''Catch who?'' Sam and Dean ask.

''Gilgamesh and Enkidu. He believes that they've been reincarnated as two new lovers, so he's killing half of all the paired souls he finds.''

''But,'' Sam starts, ''Enkidu wasn't Gilgamesh's lover...right?'' He hesitates. ''They were soul mates.''

Sam sucks a breath at her words. _Soul mates_.

''This is why he's wrong: soul mates can't be reincarnated, every one of them is unique and destined for great things.''

''I was forced to marry Dumuzid at the insistence of my brother, but I was in love with Gilgamesh. That was the first time that I was denied by a man. He loved Enkidu so very dearly, and they lived together for many years until Enkidu fell ill.'' She stops and swallows, Sam waits for her next words eagerly.

''He went mad when Enkidu died, I've never seen anything like it. He refused to bury the body ‘till it decayed and then, he came to me, begged for my help. I couldn't refuse him. I descended into the underworld, in hopes of convincing my sister to give Enkidu back.'' She smiles sadly, ''It didn't work out.''

Silence follows for long moments and then Dean speaks. ''The epic of Gilgamesh, he wasn't trying to live forever, he was trying to find a way to bring back Enkidu,'' Dean's dumbstruck by his own conclusion, how similar they are to the ancient lovers.

''That brings us to the real problem,'' Ishtar declares. ''You asked about his next victim.'' She's holding both of their attention now, and her next words have them both astonished. ''It's you, Samuel,'' she breathes, almost apologetic.

''What?!'' Dean slams his hands on the table, body trembling in barely contained rage, he's going to attack her, Sam realizes, and he places his hand on Dean's forearm. Just like that, Dean's eyes snap to him, and Sam shakes his head. Dean drops back to his chair, face still reflecting anger but not as murderous.

''He thinks you're Gilgamesh. He think if he killed Sam, he's punishing us both. Me for loving you and you for stealing me from him.''

''Let him try,'' Dean grits out, jaw tensed and muscles contracted, promising violence and destruction.

 

 

On the night the attack is supposed to happen, they leave their motel room without checking out, Dean saying that he'd sleep a year after this whole thing is done. Ishtar suggests she teleports them to the place they chose for the fight, but Dean insists on taking the car. They drove into fights a hundred times, and each one, they rode the impala like a knight might mount his steed. The impala had been their shelter for so long, Dean doesn't feel safe leaving her behind and Sam shares the sentiment with his brother.

The drive to the farm they decided on is not a long one. The place is twenty miles out of the city and abandoned. The only thing that might be considered weird about the journey is the fact that Ishtar is occupying their back seat. Now they’ve officially had everything in this car.

She spends the time telling them everything they need to know about the upcoming fight with her ex-husband. Their most concerning challenge is the weapon he's wielding, Ereshkigal's death scythe, a tool capable of sending souls to the underworld and the same one Dumuzid has been using to kill his victims. With the scythe, Dumuzid holds his own device for battles, his crossbow. According to Ishtar, his aim is impeccable and his arrows are poisoned; a small wound would cause a slow, painful death.

Their best shot is stealing the scythe and using it against him as the scythe can kill anything, gods and mortals alike.

''I can do that,'' Dean claims, just as he parks the car in front of an old, worn out building. The night is a clear one, sky filled with stars and a half-moon shining bright. The air is clean and cold, and the voices of the night are a beautiful serenade around them.

''Can you?'' Sam asks, worry evident in his tone. He might've heard and glanced and concluded things about Dean's strength, but he isn't about to send his brother into a death match without fully seeing what Dean is capable of. Dean considers him for a moment before he nods, and requests Sam follows him with a tilt of his head.

They walk for a little less than five minutes and Dean stops beside a tree; the trunk is almost as wide as a tire and Dean makes sure Sam is watching him before he wraps his arms around it as far as they can go. Dean's arms are barely long enough to circle the trunk, but he manages, and then he contracts his muscles, taut lines visible even with the barrier of multiple layers of clothes. Sam stares, wide eyed, as the wood gives under Dean's hold and the trunk is all but crushed in the next moment, a snapping sound followed by one of something being torn, and his brother is carrying the tree. Sam's jaw drops, as his mind tries to make sense of the scene unfolding in front of him. Dean is holding the tree up with his arms, and Sam doesn't know if he's feeling scared or aroused.

As if to drive his point home, Dean throws the giant piece of wood up and changes its position so it's lying horizontal in his grasp, then he gently lays it on the ground. He stands up then and locks his gaze with Sam's decisively, shoulders squared and head held high. And despite the bravado, Sam knows his brother better than Dean does. He can see he's scared, standing tall in wait of Sam's judgment, the fear of being rejected, of being treated differently is something Sam knows intimately. He can't do that to Dean, as much as he's angry with his brother for not showing him before, and in spite of the fact that he doesn't know how he feels about this, he's always been able to accept Dean.

He smiles at Dean and his voice is joyous when he proclaims his big brother as ''awesome'' and the glint that shines in Dean's eyes is everything Sam lives and breathes for. Much like the night Sam left for college, Dean opens his arms wide, and Sam has never been able to turn around on his brother's welcoming embrace. He runs the short distance between them and crashes into Dean, their ribs fitting together as Dean's arms envelope him. Dean lifts him up and starts to spin them, and Sam's heart is as big as the impala and shouldn't be able to fit inside him. They laugh as Dean continues to swirl them around, and instead of placing Sam back on his feet like he usually does after this, he tightens one arm around Sam's shoulders and in the same spinning movement, he hooks the other under Sam's knees and suddenly Sam is being carried like a princess, as his prince bounces them around in the night. And even though this moment is stolen, even though Sam has so many queries still and the impending fight looms over their heads like an ugly black cloud, Sam is happy. He leans in and connects his lips with his brother's, and this kiss is just like them, it's not slow, and not desperate, it's just a kiss. Something to be exchanged over morning coffee, or before heading to work.

''Dean!'' Ishtar's cry cuts through their haze and Sam is on his feet and running after Dean to the building.

The inside of the barn reminds Sam too much of the place Dean fought Cain in, small wooden stairs leading to a big space; all around the large room, stacks of hay are packed into rows and columns. The colours yellow and brown are the most dominant, and on the far side, a number of old farming tools are abandoned in a heap, covered by rust and dirt.

They stand in the middle of the circular space, he and Dean asking without speaking why Ishtar has called for them. She motions to the door with her index finger.

"He's here." Sam and Dean both face the entrance, guns pointed out, ready to fire useless bullets at the fallen god.

The man who steps in couldn't be further from godly with  ripped off, white trousers fixed to his body with a worn out piece of faded blue cloth. His chest is completely bare, his complexion dark but unhealthy, and his black hair is spiked up as if its ends are burned. He considers them with clouded eyes and his lips curve up in a cruel smile as he spies the goddess.

''You're here to see him lose his love again?,'' he taunts as he gestures at Dean with his chin, a condescending move that has Dean riling. Sam can almost feel Dean's anger bubbling up; if he touches Dean now, he thinks the skin might burn him.

''You're crazy,'' Dean tells the god. Dumuzid's eyes snap to Dean, and he lifts a brow at him, as if impressed Dean has the actual ability to speak. ''I'm not fricking Gilgamesh, and more importantly, I won't let you hurt him.'' He steps in front of Sam then, letting the show of protectiveness prove his words. Dumuzid laughs.

''Doesn't change a damn thing. Gilgamesh or not, my whore of a wife loves you, and I will kill your love.''

''Dumuzid, that's enough. I don't lov-'' Her words are cut off as Sam pulls her out of the way of an arrow as Dumuzid starts shooting them without aim, and then he lunges at Sam. Sam lifts his gun and fires the whole clip in fast succession, but the metal does nothing to slow the god's run at him. He covers his face with both of his arms, ready to take the scythe, but the hit never comes. Instead he hears Dumuzid's enraged yell, as he gets up from the ground. Dean is throwing the big cubes of hay at him like one might do giant rocks, and while it doesn't do permanent damage they're certainly heavy enough to disturb the god's balance, and force him to change his track. He charges at Dean, his weapon held ready to tear into him, and Sam fires at his back.

In his attempt to duck, Dean falls to the ground and rolls away from Dumuzid and the sneaky bastard takes the chance to throw more arrows at Dean. Dean dodges them, and gets to his feet fast, running to hide behind the stacks.

''Now, now, don't do that,'' Dumuzid chides. In a flash like movement, he lifts his scythe up in the air and slams it down on the floor. Lights shine bright from where the weapon is connected to the wooden floor, and the building shakes and trembles like an earthquake, the ceiling starts falling down. Sam watches with growing trepidation as his brother lunges at Dumuzid, the god receiving his attack with a maniac smile on his face as he continues to hit the ground with his scythe. Dumuzid keeps at it ‘till there's no doubt the building will crumble, and Dean shouts at Ishtar to get them out of here.

He doesn't mean all of them, just Sam and she. ''No! Dean, I'm not leaving without you!''

It's a second after that and Sam feels something tearing through his abdomen, but he can't care because Dumuzid's scythe hits Dean right in his side.

Sam screams.

His eyes are flooded with bright light and he's outside, Ishtar standing beside him as he falls to the ground and barely catches himself. The building is ruined, his brother was wounded and he's still there. He feels his lungs constricting as his lips form the shape of Dean's name, but he can't hear his own voice.

 

Dead. _Dean is dead_.

 

She sees the blood, there's lots of it, marring his clothes and dripping down his leg. He's been hurt.

He grunts in pain and she moves, kneeling beside him on the ground. She reaches out, intending to heal his wound, but he clutches her wrist, his bloody fingers painting her pale skin red.

''No, no,'' he shakes his head. ''No,'' he repeats, voice pain coated, but firm still.

''Samuel, you will die,'' she urges, knows from how he shakes his head again he won't let her.

''My wish, you can't...it's for Dean...bring him back, please,'' he babbles, _please please please_ and she's trying to tell him Dean is alive, but he won't listen.

''You have to help Dean,'' he chokes and coughs. ''Promise, don't use my wish to heal me. Promise me!'' The hand he's been using to keep himself sitting slips, and he falls to the floor, his other hand still gripping her wrist.

''Dean...Dean...''

She can't, she has to save him. It's all useless if he's not alive, too. In order for any of them to be alive, they _both_ have to be.

''I promise, Samuel'' His eyes meet with hers, clear for a second and he gives her a grateful smile, like her agreeing not to save him was all he ever wanted.

''I will save you still, young boy,'' she promises. Then she cups his cheeks.

Sam doesn't know how she can save him without using his wish and he's worried she won't keep her promise, but she shushes him gently before he can voice his concern. Her hands are warm on his cheeks, and he feels their warmth spreading through him. She's glowing a white light and he guesses he is, too. She chants something under her breath and gives him a reassuring smile before the room around them disappears and they're in a different place entirely.

They're in what's best described as a palace hall, high ceiling supported by round columns and white walls. The huge pillars are wrapped in green tendrils that have blooming lilac flowers. The entrance is a magnificent arch, and big chandeliers, lit with candles, hang down from the ceiling. To the side, there's a glacial lake and on its clear surface, petals float, a waterfall running calmly like no reality would permit. In the middle of the far wall, there are alabaster steps leading to a throne. It's beautiful, almost out of a fairy tale. Before he saw heaven, Sam had imagined it would be something like this. The big armchair is occupied by an old, white bearded man.

Ishtar stands and takes few steps away from him. Without her energy keeping him awake, his consciousness starts to slip; the old man is talking now and so is Ishtar, but he can't make out the words. After some amount of time in which he might've dozed, the goddess sits beside him again, fingers gentle through his hair, and he surrenders to the Darkness.Thinking that she should let him die; follow Dean. Dean...

 

Enki lifts his eyes just before two people appear in his hall; it's been so long since he had visits from other gods, and humans don't pray for his wisdom anymore, so he is surprised.

He recognizes the young woman instantly; Ishtar. She's kneeling over a tall, skinny man. His breaths are labored, his clothes are battered, the shadow of death is looming over him. But his soul is shining strong through death's grip. He hasn't, in his long years, seen a soul so brilliant.

''Goddess Ishtar, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?,'' he says mockingly. He already knows what this is about, she never brings but disasters. She turns to him and slowly walks away from the man, bowing her head in his direction.

''I need your help, god Enki.'' Right to the point, very unlike her sneaky self. ''You want me to save this man, I presume?''

She nods in answer and he sighs. She not only brought a mortal into the holy grounds of the gods, but she wants him to _help_ the half dead human.

''Why don't you?,'' he wonders. He can sense that the mortal hasn't received a gift from her yet, she can save him herself.

''I can't,'' she whispers, and her face crumbles, eyes filling. ''I promised him I won't use his gift for this.'' Her voice is hoarse and desperate, like he should understand what she's meaning.

''Ishtar,'' he chides. The last time she promised a man something, they all had to cover her mistakes.

''Please,'' she croaks. ''Please.''

She'd been this desperate once, trying for a man with green eyes and a heart that wasn't his own and he can see her repeating her mistakes. Five thousand years later, she never learns.

''Dean is not Gilgamesh, Ishtar,'' he reminds her softly, knows that this is what it all goes back to. She couldn't help the young king get his lover back. She doesn't want to let Dean down, too.

She squares her shoulders, holds her head high, and she looks like her resolved self for the first time since she walked into his chamber.

''I'm not saving him for Dean's sake,'' she announces, determination ringing loud and clear in her words, ''In the beginning, yes. I helped him because I wanted to help Dean, but Samuel is so bright, so unique, I'm doing this for him too. For them both. It's not about Gilgamesh.'' The last part she whispers, as if the name alone can bring back the ache.

She's always been a paradox, too old yet so young, tender as love and destructive as war's fire. She's emotional, passionate about this, and he can understand that she has a soft spot for humans but he can't see the rightness in favoring only one.

The man groans in pain and she goes back to him, seats herself with his head in her lap, following his hairline with the tips of her fingers and caressing his cheek with the skin on their back. She's murmuring comfort to him, and he's twice her size but he looks like a small child needing his mother's lullaby to put him to sleep. He closes his eyes and hers over flow, crying silently over him.

''He's dying, god Enki, please. You've helped me before.'' It's unbecoming of her to fall apart for a human; he hated it before and hates it now. He can see that she's not in love with this man like she was with Gilgamesh, but he doesn't desire to see this nonetheless. When he helped her in the past, it wasn't for her sake.

''It was for your people I did,'' he informs gently, gesturing with his chin to the dying man ''He's just one man.''

But that's not what Ishtar sees when she looks at Samuel. She follows the soft lines of his features, the delicate bow of his lips, the sunrise she knows is there behind his lids, and she sees what he's truly worth. The endless lives he’s saved, the times the world would've fallen without him, and she sees Dean.

Dean is the scariest monster when he hasn't Sam, a feral beast with an aching heart and half his soul missing. She sees how he would destroy everything to get Sam back.

She connects her gaze with Enki's and says, ''No. He's not just one man.'' Because he isn't, Sam is everyone he helped and everyone who needs him, and he's Dean's soul. He can't die.

She won't give it up, it's clear to Enki. And if she's been wrong about everything else she's right about him, his soul is as bright as the moon in a dark night. Enki is nothing if not wise, and he can see the potential in this man even when he knows nothing about him. He nods to her and she smiles, looks down at Samuel and tells him it's alright.

And it will be.

 

 

 

''Sam? Sam.''

Someone is calling for him, and he knows that voice. Feminine, sweet and calm. Someone who was there to help him. Sam tries to answer, but his chest is aching something fierce and he can't find his own voice.

''Sam, open your eyes. Dean is coming to get you.''

Dean...

No, it can't be. Dean is dead. He's dead.

The pain in his heart throbs, sending the hurt through his whole body, everything just _hurts_ , it hurts, it hurts.

Dean is dead.

''Sam, Sam? Open your eyes. Dean is coming to get you.''

He knows he's dreaming, he had this dream before, he just has to wake up and it'll be alright, Dean will be there, and he won't remember this.

His lashes flutter, and his surroundings come back slowly, his eyes taking in the place he's in, the face of a young woman above him, features contracted in worry.

Ishtar. No. No.

''Shhhhh, Samuel. It's okay.'' Her delicate fingers wipe at the corners of his eyes and she smiles at him. ''Dean is coming to get you, it's all over now,'' she whispers.

''But...how?'' His voice is scratchy and weak, and the effort makes him cough, he braces himself for pain but feels none, and he sits up so fast his head spins. He's in his bed, in the motel room he and Dean rented. He pushes the covers away and looks down at his body, but the wound he remembers getting is not there.

''You promised!,'' he accuses hoarsely, and before he can get more words out, the goddess interrupts him.

''I didn't use your wish to heal you.'' He tries to open his mouth but she lifts her hand and he relents, allows her to continue without him jumping in. ''Dean has killed Dumuzid; he's on his way back here.''

Sam lets out a relieved sob, his heart is hurting, and his fingers are itching with the urge to touch Dean and confirm the news. He stares at the goddess with wide eyes. ''He did it! The mission is done.''

She nods at him with a soft smile. ''You can have your wish now,'' she tells him and for a minute he can't believe it, it's all going to be over.

''Remember that it has to be for you.''

And that right there is the catch he was expecting. ''What do you mean for me? It _is_ for me, I want you to remove The Mark of Cain off of my brother.'' His voice is raising, fear starts to creep in, and he doesn't want to face this, a possibility where he fails Dean once more, he can't go through it again.

''Samuel, breathe.'' When the gentle order is uttered, he realizes that he wasn't breathing, and he sucks in a large gulp of air, his lungs burn with it as if trying to fight against what they were made for.

''I can't do that, I can't give anything to Dean. This has to be for you,'' she repeats, and he can't understand, won't understand.

''It is for me!,'' he screams and she shakes her head ruefully.

''Samuel, calm down.'' Motherly stern, she levels him with a gaze that's almost disappointed, and he snaps.

''Why the fuck not? Why can't you? You said anything I want!'' His corneas burn with his acidic tears, and he holds them in because this is not the time for crying, not yet. Later, he'll cry later, for now he has to comprehend the words that are being said.

''He already has a gift from me, I can't gift a human twice. I'm so sorry.''

It clicks, suddenly everything makes sense. Why he thought Dean and Ishtar knew each other, where Dean got his power from and why his brother didn't tell him about it.

He made the same deal with Ishtar.

''His strength,'' he breathes, head hanging in surrender. She nods.

''It was almost sixteen years ago. He was twenty, covered in your blood and desperate, and as beautiful as he is now.'' Her tone is gentle, and the way she talks about Dean like he's a far from reach dream is something Sam's familiar with. Dean has always been his untouchable desire, one way or another, for as long as he can remember.

''He screamed, Samuel. Asked for help, and it was so powerful and terrifying, the amount of anguish in it, I had to answer him.'' She sits on the bed beside him and takes his right hand in both of hers, asks him to look at her and when he does, she speaks again.''He did it for you,'' she says apologetically. Because she knows how painful this is for him; Dean is so unfair. Sixteen years back and he still took this from Sam, wished for Sam and didn't allow Sam to do the same. God, his brother is so unfair.

''What am I supposed to do now?,'' he questions, his eyes pleading with hers and he remembers Sophia, how she asked him the same and how he didn't know the answer, how much he's similar to her in so many ways, how he would've done the same if he was in her place, even though he wanted to blame her for her decision.

''You stay by his side and take care of him. The only thing The Mark did to him is remove his inhibitions, you can be his strength to hold back, the band to his bleeding wounds,'' she says this like she really believes him capable of it, and he shakes his head furiously, hair falling in his eyes.

''You are stronger than you think, Samuel. Remember, Cain held on for so long and what he had was just a promise for Collette. Dean has _you_ and when he does, he can do anything,'' She urges him, eyes shining with the plea for him to understand, to believe what she’s telling him.

She looks like she’s about to say something else but she turns her head towards the entrance. A second passes and she smiles and winks and Sam eyes the empty place she's looking at suspiciously. She shakes her head no, and faces him again. Sam is confused, he's about to ask her what that was about but she speaks, cutting off his train of thought.

Ishtar senses his approach before he gets to the door. She casts a barrier around the room to prevent Sam from hearing the impala's engine, she wants him to reunite with Dean, but not now, this decision is too important and Samuel needs to do it alone, uninfluenced by his brother's presence. Dean opens the door and tries to walk further into the room but he can't. He stops in his tracks and calls for Sam and his eyes widen and return to her as she smiles and winks at him.

 ''Let him see me!,'' he snaps at her.

She shakes her head at him and looks back at Sam, ignoring Dean's demand to be heard and seen by Sam.

Sam is trying to ask her something, and she hates lying to him so she cuts him off before he starts.

''The question is, are you ready to do this for him?'' He looks directly into her eyes, his own serious and honest, and he delivers his reply without hesitation.

''I'd do anything for Dean.''

His answer doesn't surprise her and, partly, this is meant for Dean to hear, to listen to Sam when he talks about him to others.

''But I can't,'' Sam starts. ''The Mark stopped his aging, he's going to stay young forever. All I can give him is forty more years or so'' Wetness gathers on his lashes as he fights against the urge to let the tears out.

She raises her hands and cups his face, forcing his gaze to meet hers one more time. ''You still have your wish.''

He gasps and the sound coming from Dean is just as breathless.

''Ishtar! Don't do this to him!,'' Dean shouts, but she ignores him.

''I can wish to stay young forever?,'' Sam asks her, eyes wide and unbelieving.

''I have to warn you, Samuel. Living forever means seeing everything you know turning into dust, time and time again.'' She knows better than anyone the burden of living for so long, the heaviness no mortal is made to endure. She's never considered to bestow this gift upon anyone, never thought a human could take it, but if anyone could it'd be these two, together. He lowers his head, and she brushes his hair back with her fingers.

''It's your choice and yours alone.'' Her words are for Dean who didn't once stop his protests, and once he hears them he shuts up, glaring at her instead.

''What if he doesn't want me? I mean, forever is a long time. What if he gets tired of me?,'' Sam wonders in a broken whisper.

''Sammy,'' Dean breathes, crying to be heard.

Ishtar smiles. ''It's up to you, Sammy,'' she singsongs. His eyes snap to her and he gives her a grin; she knows it's because she's mimicking Dean, her smile widens and she gives him an encouraging nod.

''Only Dean gets to call me that,'' he informs her, but the words lack any real bite. She throws her head back as she laughs, more at the smug smile on Dean's face than at Sam's answer.

''What do I have to do?,'' Sam asks at last. Her hands leave their place on his cheeks and hook in his, gripping his fingers hard.

''Make a wish, young boy. Say your name and make a wish.''

He inhales deep, ''I'm Sam Winchester, I wish to live forever.'' He's scared, thrilled at the same time, she can do this for him, and he wants nothing more than to stay with Dean.

''What you're doing now is not for yourself, and yet it is selfish,'' she repeats her words from the first time he met her, her voice echoing off the walls and into his bones. ''It is as pure as it is tainted. And so I want you to remember the reason behind your choice today, and I want you to promise me,'' she waits for his affirming nod before she goes on, ''Promise me that you'll hold on to him.''

''I won't ever let him go,'' Sam vows, his words coated with determination and his eyes brighter than the sun. She remembers the same words were uttered by Dean once, Dean whose eyes are filling, and he's staring at Sam like he's blind to everything else in this universe. She leaves then, knowing that they're where they need to be, finally on the same page. They won't need her again.

The second Ishtar disappears from the room, Dean is there, throwing himself at Sam and cupping his face, hands moving everywhere as if checking that all of Sam is still in place.

''Sammy, dammit, you idiot. Are you okay?''

Dean is close, too close, and Sam feels like he hasn't seen him in forever, he thought he’d lost him, but Dean is here, alive and warm and safe. The tears he's been fighting against win the battle and finally fall down, salty and hot on his cheeks.

''Dean,'' he sniffles, and Dean smiles at him, loving and gentle. This is the Dean from before everything went to hell, this is his Dean.

He leans down and captures Dean's mouth in a hungry kiss, feeling for himself that he's not dreaming, that they're actually here. Dean breaks the kiss and moves closer, rests his forehead against Sam's. He has to cross his eyes to see Dean now, and this close his freckles are blurred. Sam thinks he can trace them blindfolded.

''I missed you so much,'' he says, and Dean almost chokes, because he knows what Sam means.

''I'm right here, Sammy,'' he whispers in the inch of air between them, and even this much is too far for Sam. ''I'm not going anywhere, never leaving you again, sweetheart.'' Sam closes his eyes at the endearment, his favourite one, the special pet name that makes him feel loved and completely Dean's.

They kiss again and time leaves them, passing quietly. They don't notice how long their lips sweep against each other's, they only pull away when their lungs burn with the need for oxygen. Finally, they break apart. Dean takes his place next to Sam, sitting while supporting his back on the headboard, Sam cuddled close to him, Dean's right arm wrapped around Sam's shoulders, securing him in place.

Dean is warm under Sam's cheek, solid, Sam caresses his body, his midsection where he thought the scythe hit him.

''He hit you,'' Sam says, and it's a question more than a statement. ''He did,'' Dean confirms.

''Then how?'' Sam gets up and stares at Dean, breaths growing faster as he re-lives the moment in the fight. Dean shushes him and pulls him back to him.

''The scythe is powered by a spell, and without it, it's an ordinary weapon. With The Mark, spells don't work on me, so it was just a physical hit. By the time I got here, it was barely there anymore.'' He kisses the crown of Sam's head.

''Are you sure about your wish, Sammy?'' Dean asks, fingers massaging mindlessly on Sam's scalp. ''Forever is a long time,'' he adds, softly.

Sam stays silent for a while, enjoying the rhythm of Dean's heart below his ear. He traces imaginary lines on Dean's chest, places a kiss on Dean's pectoral and murmurs his words against his brother's warm skin.

''Not nearly long enough.''

Dean's laugh is filled of joy and happiness, and he plants another kiss on Sam's head. ''Do you truly mean that? I can be hard to deal with, what with The Mark and all.'' His tone is joking but Sam reads the fear in it nonetheless, he's programmed to sense Dean's emotions, no matter how hard the older hunter tries to hide them.

''I love you.''

''Sammy,'' a breath, unbelieving, Dean always says his name with such awe every time Sam repeats those three words.

''Dean, I love you,'' he says it over and over, punctuating every one with a kiss up Dean's body ‘till they face each other again. ''I love you,'' he seals it with a kiss to Dean's plump lips, hoping that his brother, his doubtful, beautiful Dean would finally believe him.

''Me too,'' Dean says, and Sam gives him a wolfish grin, not ready to let it go. Dean doesn't say it much, if at all, and Sam has missed these words so much he's not about to give up on them.

''You too what?'' Dean groans, pulls him down into another kiss, this one longer and more passionate than the previous one.

''I love you, too.'' Sam smiles so big he thinks his jaw would be stuck like this, and speaking of being stuck...

''You're stuck with me now,'' he informs Dean, all serious business and Dean cracks.

''What do we do now?'' Dean asks him, and there's something about the way he's looking directly at Sam that tells him that Dean would do whatever Sam wants.

''Can we...find a place, you know, away?'' He knows he's asking much, too much perhaps, but he can't help it, he won't walk away if Dean decided they should continue to hunt, but he really wishes, longs for something just for them.

''An eternity in a small cottage, with you by my side,'' Dean says thoughtfully, ''Sounds like a dream.'' His eyes are glassy when they lock with Sam's and Sam believes they can have this.

''So let us dream,'' he whispers, his breath hitting Dean's cheek and reflecting back to him.

''Forever,'' Dean promises.

''Forever.''

 

 

-End.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, here are the real legends
> 
> The first thing is the timeline, Gilgamesh and Dumuzid weren't alive at the same time, Ishtar met Gilgamesh long after the death of her husband. In The Epic of Gilgamesh, the young king reminds her of her betrayal to her husband when he rejects her.  
> **************************
> 
> Ishtar's marriage to Dumuzid was not by her choice, she was in love with another, but her brother Shamash (God of the sun) convinced her to marry him.  
> ******************
> 
> No one knows the real reason behind Ishtar's visit to the underworld (Irkalla) every source mentions a different story. One mentions that it was a trap from her older sister Ereshkigal, who invited her (under the pretense of needing consoling after Ereshkigal's husband's death) but refused to set her free. No matter the difference in the reason she descended to the underworld, all the stories tell the same about her return. Since she was the goddess of love and earth, her absence stopped reproduction, the lands died and marriages stopped, so one of her followers went to ask the help of Enki (God of wisdom) and Enki agreed to help. He gave ''the dust of life'' to the servant and asked him to throw it on Ishtar's dead body. The servant went to the underworld, and did what was told, and even though Ishtar came back to life, Ereshkigal refused to let her out, and asked for someone to take her place. The first choice was the servant who followed Ishtar but Ishtar begged for his life and Ereshkigal decided to send her demons back to earth, giving Ishtar three days to decide who to take her place or they would drag her back.  
> ********************
> 
> So when Ishtar arrived on earth everyone was there to celebrate her return except her husband, Dumuzid, whom she found sitting on her thrown, drunk and surrounded by women, in a fit of rage she told Ereshkigal's demons to take him in her stead and that's how Dumuzid died. (serves him right imo).  
> *******************
> 
> Enki thought of Ishtar as sneaky because she stole the ''bells of knowledge'' from him and gave them to humans, in the legends it's mentioned that goddess Ishtar was the most compassionate of gods towards humans, and her theft from Enki is why Sumer prospered, and was one of the strongest kingdoms.  
> ***************
> 
> Now to Gilgamesh, he wasn't Enkidu's lover, but they were best friends. Gilgamesh loved Enkidu so much, and after his death he was so scared of dying too, so he went to seek eternity. However, history students still debate the nature of their relationship, it would take forever to discuss this so I'll point out what matters and those of you still curious can come and ask on my [tumblr ](https://nisaki-chan.tumblr.com/). It's true and mentioned in The Epic that Gilgamesh refused to bury Enkidu's body for two days, he kept screaming at his servants that Enkidu was not dead till the body rotted. Sad I know :( . In case you're wondering I ship them and I have Canon events on my side!  
> ****************
> 
> As for the resemblance in physique between Dean and Gilgamesh, it's up to which source you choose to believe, one of the sources describe Gilgamesh as a tall man with brown hear and green eyes. So yes he could've bore some resemblance to Dean. 
> 
> Last but not least, please leave me feedback <3


End file.
